


Holding Out 'Til You Return (Home)

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, Case Fic, Gen, Time Travel, like real angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time travel sucks. Especially if it throws you back in 1997 and gets you ambushed by your older brother who's suddenly a bit too perceptive and your supposed-to-be-dead dad.<br/>Sam just didn't realize that putting up a front would be so hard.</p><p>Set some unspecified time in season 9 after the episode "First Born".</p><p>(Currently discontinued due to personal reasons.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There is always a certain risk that comes with trying to kill a monster, especially when you have no idea what said monster actually is.

To be fair, though, the Winchesters do try their best to identify it. Roman gods, Greek gods, pagan gods, 1963 police boxes, anything that can travel in time. They find something eventually. They’re wrong, of course, but they try.

They have a couple of leads: a sixteen-year-old in the body of an eighty-year-old and another woman who claims to be born in 1864. Apparently it’s enough for them, because they equip themselves with their chosen weapons, and eventually, with a few prayers to the Horrible Winchester Luck™ to not intervene this time, they set out to kill the time-traveling son-of-a-bitch.

Of course, the Horrible Winchester Luck™ doesn't listen to prayers.

Sam's phone vibrates in his pocket and he fishes it out with one hand, the other gripping his gun tightly. “Dean?” he whispers, not daring to make too much noise.

His brother's voice comes out tinny from the other end of the line. “Sam. You close?”

“Almost.” Sam presses himself against the wall and chances a glance ahead. He quickly draws back.

“Dean, I can see it.”

“And?”

“Its back is to me,” Sam breathes, not daring to raise his voice to any more than an undertone. “It’s about forty feet away. It’s in the dark; I can’t really...” Sam trails off because just then, the creature decides to turn around. Sam stares.

“What? What is it?” Dean sounds impatient.

Tentacles. The creature has tentacles. And a purple dress.

“Um… It... doesn’t look very humanoid.” Sam starts forwards slowly, keeping to the wall and the shadows.

“What do you mean, ‘It doesn’t look very humanoid’?”

“I think it has suckers.”

“What?” Dean says sharply.

“Look, Dean, can’t talk now. You coming?” They’re making too much noise. The creature’s bound to notice.

“Of course I’m—hey, Sam, don’t you hang up on—”

“Bye, Dean.”

“Sammy! _Don’t you dare_ —” _Beep._

_Sorry, Dean._

Sam slowly starts to creep up behind the creature. His phone vibrates again and he curses under his breath. Ignoring his brother, he reaches for his new knife (bronze blade, wooden handle made from an old grandfather clock so he can kill the damn thing), draws it out silently, and with one deft movement, throws it into the creature’s back.

It evaporates with a hiss of steam and an unearthly screech, tentacles wriggling.

Sam breathes out a sigh of relief. Case closed. He reaches for his phone and dials his brother.

“Dean? Done.” He can’t help that he sounds slightly smug. “Now what is it that you were going to tell me?”

And then he frowns, because he doesn’t expect his brother’s next words to be _“We were wrong; the creature’s not an ancient Roman deity,”_ and _“Sammy, get the hell out of there!”_ and when his eyes widen and his feet desperately kick at the ground it’s too late because it’s already gotten to him.

And then, as they say, it all goes black.

~*~

_Two hours later, if time were relative_

Sam pushes through the door and a few heads idly turn to look at him before going back to their business. He slowly walks in, ducking to avoid a low-hanging ceiling light. The bar is ill-lit and has a musky, thick scent to it, as if it hasn’t been aired out in a long time. A quick glance around confirms that the clientele appear to be in the same shape. It seems like an ordinary bar in the middle of nowhere. Sam has only one question.

Is this place real, or is it a reality created by the creature so it can feed off his life essence?

He’d woken up outside the bar, in a shed, alone. He hadn’t been able to see the creature when it had attacked him—it had happened too suddenly—so he had guessed it was either invisible and following him, or it had gone off somewhere. Either way, now Sam needs to figure out what it looks like and track it down.

Well, first he has to get his bearings.

Trying not to appear too tall (nearly impossible, considering his frame) or conspicuous, Sam approaches the bartender cautiously.

"Excuse me," he says hesitantly. "I, uh, I know this sounds like a weird question but, um..."

The bartender, a heavyset man in his fifties, puts down the glass he had been cleaning and leans forward. "Spit it out, kid."

_I'm thirty-one._ "Where are we?" Sam’s green eyes are cautious.

A dark-haired man sitting nearby with his back to Sam pauses in his conversation with his companion.

The bartender raises an eyebrow. "Hammer Time."

The name of the bar. "No, I mean the city." Sam smiles awkwardly and hopes it will help him get away with sounding like a sober drunk.

Behind Sam, the dark-haired man gets up.

The bartender shrugs, not returning the smile. Sam drops it. "Houston, Texas," the bartender says. He squints at Sam. "You have anything to drink before you come in here?" he asks suspiciously.

"No, I, uh, was just checking." Sam smiles tightly. "Thanks. I'll have a beer." Houston? The last he knew he had been in Missouri.

The dark haired man sits down beside Sam. He doesn’t notice.

Then a familiar voice says, "How much _did_ you have, then?"

Sam freezes and slowly turns his head. Sitting right next to him, with hard eyes and a growing look of suspicion, is John Winchester.

Oh no. This is bad. This is very, very bad. John can’t be here. More to the point, _Sam_ can’t be here.

John, either not noticing or ignoring Sam’s shocked expression, continues in an off-handed, laid-back tone of voice that Sam knows from experience could turn to steel in a second. "Or do you need to reacquaint yourself with your surroundings?"

It’s a layered question if Sam’s ever heard one. He knows he should probably answer it to quell the look in his father's eyes, but all he can do is swallow, his throat suddenly dry.

Then Dean appears behind John and Sam's eyes widen despite himself. This isn’t his Dean. This is a younger, lankier Dean whose jacket hangs off his frame. His eyes are curious and his face is thin and he can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. Sam feels a pang as he looks at his brother. His hair is wilder and his features seem to be transitioning from pretty-boy to man, and his eyes are young and unburdened, free from all the hardships that his Dean knows. Sam stares at him, unable to help himself, and then a moment passes and he knows that he’s stared a second too long. He tears his gaze away to look back at John, but it’s too late. His father's eyes are cold and hard, and he has a look on his face that makes Sam’s blood run cold. (It strikes him as strange, somewhere in the back of his mind, that his father looks like he’s just cornered a monster).

"Is there something wrong with my son?" John's voice is ice.

Sam shakes his head. "No sir," he says, dropping his voice to an apologetic tone. "Not at all." _If only you knew,_ he adds wryly, then mentally kicks himself.

John smiles falsely, a barely disguised threat peaking through the façade. "Why don't you come sit with us?" He nods to a table at the far corner of the bar. "If you're new here, we know the area pretty well. We could help you." _Let's see if we should kill you._

Sam forces a smile. "I think that that's a good idea." He’ll only dig his grave deeper by saying no.  
He grabs his beer and prepares to lie through his teeth.

~*~

As soon as they sit down, John pins him with a hard stare. Sam would later realize that his dad might have been acting a tad _too_ suspicious towards him, but at the moment the thought doesn’t occur to him. All he wants is to reassure his father that he has no intention of using the local population as a feeding source.

“Let’s start this off friendly,” John begins. “What’s the real reason you asked for your location?”

Sam takes a sip of his beer, stalling. John’s eyes narrow at him. A small spark of the familiar rebellion lights in the pit of Sam’s stomach, and some part of him, the part that had left for Stanford, decides that he isn’t going to let his father try to bully him into submission.

“Actually,” Sam says, “the date would be nice, too. Thanks.” The impudent tone slips from his tongue before he can help himself. He knows right then that he’s going to be difficult, and inwardly curses his own stubbornness.

“It’s the seventh of July.” Dean speaks up, his voice at least an octave higher than what Sam’s used to. He shoots his brother a fond half-smile. His father may be the same drill-sergeant man, but this Dean is actually almost cute in his inexperience, the way a puppy might be when it trips over its own hind legs.

“I meant the year.”

Dean raises his chin fractionally and Sam recognizes the inquisitive tilt immediately. “1997.”

Seventeen years in the past.

Sam breathes in deeply and leans back. “Oh.” Well, that might prove to be a problem.

“Now you answer our questions,” John says. “Why do you want to know where and when you are?”

“I’m a hunter,” Sam replies, deciding to be honest. He can hear Dean’s intake of breath; John remains silent. “A monster attacked me, and I woke up outside, nowhere near where I was before. I need to find it to get back.” _What was that thing, anyway? Dean said we were wrong about it._

John stares at him in silence. Sighing, Sam takes out his knife. “Silver,” he says, and nicks himself on the arm. He takes out a small rod. “Iron.” John slides him a vial and he takes a sip. “Holy water.” He slides the vial back.

“If you really are a hunter,” John says lowly, “you sure are stupid. Walking in, asking questions like that? What were you thinking?”

“How do you know that we’re—” Dean begins. John cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“I didn’t think this was real,” Sam replies. “Hell, I still don’t know if it’s real. This is probably all just a figment of my imagination. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that this is real.” John leans forward. “How do you know us?”

Sam looks away.

“Oh, I’m not stupid,” John continues. “You know who we are; I saw the way you looked at Dean. You most definitely recognized him, and chances are you know me too. Now spill.”

Sam is silent for a minute. Should he tell them? He probably should, but…

How would John and Dean treat him if they knew who he really was?

He can practically hear Dean’s voice in his head, trying to convince him. _No, no bad idea, Sam. Don’t lie, dammit._

“James Demalto,” Sam says, choosing the name of the alias whose jacked credit card he’s currently carrying. “We’ve hunted together in the future. I’m from… many years from now.” He slides his phone across the table. All the names in it are fake, so even if they figure it out, he’s got nothing to worry about. “I know your family closely. My… partner and I were hunting this creature, and, as I said, it attacked me and I ended up here.”

John studies the phone, pressing the home button and blinking in surprise when the screen lights up. “July 7th,” he reads, “4:42 a.m.?”

Sam nods. “To the exact day, see? And I came here a few hours ago, I think. Passed out. It didn’t revert with me.” It is sometime in the evening, as far as he can tell.

“We’re still alive?” Dean says incredulously, apparently still stuck on that. John shoots him a sharp glance.

“He said he knew us,” he says to his son. “He didn’t say when. And he might still be lying. Why should we trust you?” The last part is directed at Sam, who shrugs.

“You shouldn’t,” he says. “But then, I can’t trust you either. You could be trying to kill me when you’re not pretending to be my—” He stops himself from saying “family” just in time. “—friends.” John’s eyes narrow at the slip-up, making Sam cringe inwardly, but he keeps his face impassive and doesn’t say anything.

“And you could have travelled back in time to kill us, for revenge.”

Sam holds his father’s eyes, seeing all the suspicion and doubt in them, and for the first time wonders at the man he had been before hunting had turned him into this. He considers John’s words and wonders for a second if he could bring himself to actually seek some kind of retribution for his lost childhood. He was being given a second chance here; he could have a word or two with his dad, tell him to stop hunting, threaten him with the knowledge of what was to come and revel in the fear he knew would spark in his eyes.

No. Sam lowers his gaze. Back when he had hunted with him, he had never realized it, too full of his own self-righteousness, but their father had been trying his very hardest. It hadn’t been enough, and he hadn’t been the perfect dad, not by a long shot, but he had tried, and Sam couldn’t blame him for all the crap he had been in.

Sam looks back up. “I could have. But if I were me, which I am, and if I had wanted to hurt you, I would have left the bar as soon as I saw your face. I would have waited by the Impala for you to come,” he takes a slow sip of his beer and makes sure to lock eyes with his dad, “… and then I would have killed your son.”

Dean looks a tad shocked at this, but John stays stock-still. Dimly, Sam registers that Dean isn’t playing up his hero worship of “let’s imitate everything Dad does”, which is strange.

Sam leans forward. “And then I would leave,” he finishes, just because he feels entitled to it.

There are a few moments of silence that seem to stretch out forever, almost as if the bar is holding its breath. Then John takes a sip of his own drink and sighs.

“We’re hunting a creature that can travel through time,” John says. Dean looks as though he wants to protest, but says nothing. “It’s called a Rynclus.”

Sam frowns. So he and Dean had been wrong after all. Or had they? “You figured out what it was?”

John pauses. “Not really,” he says. “A man told me, three days before we got the case. Then he disappeared.”

_And you just automatically trust him?_ Sam thinks, but says instead, “Have you tried tracking him down?” No need to start up any unwarranted animosity this soon.

John shakes his head. “When I say disappeared,” he says, “I mean he vanished into thin air. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I looked everywhere, asked everywhere. No one in the area had ever seen anyone matching his description. I couldn’t find him.”

Sam nods slowly, accepting the information. “That’s why you were suspicious of me,” he says. “You thought I was the creature.”

“Or maybe another mysterious messenger,” Dean mutters. Sam raises his eyebrows slightly. It isn’t like his brother to be so cynical on account of their dad. John looks at his son sharply and continues talking.

“A man who went missing fifty years ago came to his old workplace last month,” he says. “Hasn’t aged a day. Another little girl who went missing three years ago came back nine years older, talking about flying cars. And now you.”

Sam nods. “So the… Rynclus, if that’s what it is, is transporting people through time. And space, apparently, to a certain extent. I was in Missouri before this. Did you look it up, do research?”

There’s a beat, long enough for Sam to feel that something’s not right, and then John nods. “Of course,” he says, his voice oddly clipped, and Sam’s radar goes right off. “I have information at our motel room. If you don’t mind, we could get going…? It would speed things up.” He pushes his chair back.

Sam nods and starts to get up as well. “Of course,” he repeats.

As they leave the bar, neither John nor Dean notice the amused twitch of Sam’s lips.

~*~

Man, this guy is tall.

Dean realizes this now as he stands up, all six foot five hundred of him, and heads out the door, the Winchesters trailing in his wake. Tall and stupid, apparently. Does he really think that they’ll buy his little story? From the future, as if. More like he _is_ the creature trying to play the pity card. The knowledge about their car and the weird techno-gadget phone had been a nice try, but not enough by far. Hopefully he underestimates them now; Dad had pretended to believe him and Dean had played his part well as the innocent, skeptical kid, if he does say so himself.

Dad mouths something silently to him and Dean nods. _Get the jump on him, and get his gun if he has one. Got it._ Stick to the plan they had made right before Dad had asked “James” to sit with them.

They head around the back of the bar, where the Impala is parked. James is still in front of them, and hasn’t turned around yet. John lifts up three fingers at his son, and Dean nods.

_Two… one._

Dean lunges forward at James, and what follows happens so quickly that he has trouble keeping up.

Before he can even make contact, James whirls around and grabs his arm, jerking him towards his body, and then kicks out his legs from under him. The next thing Dean knows, he’s being held close to the tall man, and his dad is pointing a gun at them.

Well, fuck. That didn’t go as expected.

Dean goes stock-still, and he can feel breath barely ghosting the back of his neck and a steady heartbeat at his back. “I told you that I hunted with you,” James says, and he’s speaking in a low, amused tone. “I’m not here to harm you, John, Dean. I want to help.”

“Let him go,” John orders, his voice dark and dangerous, “and I won’t kill you this instant.” His grip on the gun tightens.

“No,” James replies, “You’ll kill me in five instants. I don’t want to die, thank you very much. Sorry, Dean, but you’re my life insurance.” He chuckles lightly, and Dean frowns when he detects no hint of malice or genuine creepiness. James has no need to pretend to be friendly anymore; he’s holding Dean hostage, for fuck’s sake. What’s he playing at?

“Are you armed?” John asks.

James nods. “A gun.”

“Where?” John growls.

“Back of my jeans. And a knife. Inner jacket pocket. Holy water as well, and that’s all.”

“Kick the gun and the knife over here.”

Dean thinks it’s a little strange that his dad is the one asking James to disarm, but then it’s also a little strange that James himself isn’t holding a gun to Dean’s skull. Keeping one arm locked around Dean so he can’t escape, James slowly reaches behind and pulls out his gun. Dean struggles, but even the man’s one-armed grip is like steel. James drops his gun and kicks it over to the eldest Winchester.

“Now the knife.” John’s voice is controlled and his eyes are frosty, but there’s a tinge of confusion in them. Dean feels an arm go behind his back to get the knife, and there’s a moment when Dean’s heart races and he waits for the cold silver to press against his throat, but it never does, and then the knife is kicked over to his dad as well.

“Great.” John lowers his gun slightly. “Now the son.”

Dean feels James tense behind him.

“James,” John says, “if that’s even who you really are, if you hand over my son right now, I promise that I’ll give you a chance to explain yourself.”

Dean chances a glance behind him to see James’s face and swallows. His facial features are a mask, but his green eyes are guarded and heavy.

_Wary. Burdened. Tired._

Those eyes look off on a face that young.

A hunter, then.

Dean has a sudden uneasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that he can’t quite explain. “Dad,” he says softly. “Put down the gun.”

Maybe it’s something in his tone, or maybe his dad suddenly decides the odds are against this new stranger, but he slowly lowers his gun. Dean feels James’s iron grip loosen and drop, and he steps away from the man. When he turns around to look at him, he finds James staring at the ground with an undecipherable expression.

“Alright.” John steps forward. “Now we ask questions, and you answer.” James nods.

“Who are you, really?”

“James Demalto,” James replies in a low voice, and gives a half-hearted shrug. “If you know my face, you might as well know my name.”

“Hmm,” John says, his tone staying neutral. “Where are you from?”

“Everything I told you is true, John.” James looks up. “I _am_ from the future, and I _am_ hunting the creature that transported me here. Believe me or don’t believe me, it’s up to you. I can do this by myself, or we can work together. Your choice.”

“How much do you know about us?” Dean demands. Emerald green eyes look at him for a split second, a certain emotion flickering across them too quickly for Dean to identify it. Then James chuckles humourlessly. “A lot,” he says. “I know that you have a younger brother named Sam. I know that your mother died when you were little, and you want to hunt down the thing that killed her. I know that you have an amulet around your neck—” here his jaw clenches, “—that you never go without. You know an amazing man named Bobby Singer who—”

“Singer?” John frowns in confusion. “He comes in handy sometimes, I’ll admit, but I wouldn’t exactly use ‘amazing’ to describe him.”

James’s eyes drift away, and then snap back up immediately afterwards as if regretting the action, but the delay is a second too long.

There’s a beat of silence in which none of them say anything, and Dean can see the fractional slump of his dad’s shoulders when he realizes what James won’t tell them. He frowns, opens his mouth to confirm it, but James shakes his head.

Dean’s heart skips a beat. _Bobby dies,_ his mind chants at him. _Bobby dies, possibly sometime in the near future._ He swallows. He knew that it was going to happen eventually—Bobby’s a hunter after all and it’s unavoidable—but he had never really allowed himself to think about the inevitable. _Dad’s going to die, I’m going to die, Bobby’s going to die._

_Sammy’s going to die._

That won’t happen. He’ll never allow it to. “Is Sammy alright?” he asks, because he has to; has to know that his little brother’s okay. _Not dead,_ a voice in his mind clarifies, and Dean ignores it.

James huffs, a small, dry smile painting his lips. “Depends on who you ask,” he says. Dean frowns, because that had better mean that Sam is alive.

“He’s alive, Dean,” James adds, as if reading his thoughts, and Dean sighs quietly in relief.

”So you know us well,” John states, half-questioning. James nods.

“Well, we don’t know who you are at all, seeing as we haven’t even met you yet,” John continues.

“Understandable.” James smirks lightly, easily, and Dean can feel the tension fading.

John is still for a moment, and Dean feels the weight of the decision he had to make. Trust a possible friend who was a stranger? Or turn him away?

John jerks his thumb towards the Impala. “Get in the car,” he says. “You can ride in the back.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys hash out all the awkward introductions. Sam gets fed on, without his knowledge. Poor guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've already got this almost all pre-written... it's not that long, but if y'all like, I could possibly stretch it out.  
> Also, I've reworked this one a bit. Cleaned it up, so to speak.

James is quiet for the ride, his tall frame hunched over awkwardly in the back seat. Usually it’s Sam who rides in the back, little Sammy who has yet to reach puberty full and proper. At fourteen, Sam hasn’t gotten his growth spurt yet. Dean’s waiting, with slight trepidation, for it to come with a vengeance. Well, at least Sammy can’t possibly grow _that_ tall, so Dean has some reassurance. James does ask where he is, and Dean tells him about the hunter friend that their dad had sent him to for a week. To learn new techniques, he had said, though Dean had been sure that that hadn’t been the only reason.

When they get to the motel, James exits the car silently, stretching and shaking out his arms. Dean stays behind him as they follow John in.

“You’ll have to get another room,” John tells James, who nods and goes to the receptionist, smiling charmingly at her while saying that he had gotten robbed and would you give him a day or two please he promises he’ll pay. Dean takes a moment to admire his tactics (and the receptionist).

They finally get everything sorted out and go back to Dean and his dad’s motel room. Dean watches James stride in with barely a glance at the pictures and notes scattered everywhere, as if he’s used to them being there.

John tosses James a file, which he catches neatly. “Information on the Rynclus. Look through it. We’ve figured out that it can be killed with an oak branch dipped in the blood of a creature that doesn’t age. We’ve got the oak branch already.”

James tilts his head questioningly. “If I really had been the creature,” he says, “Why did you want to go up against me without a sufficient weapon?”

John shrugs. “Figured bullets would hurt like a mother,” he says breezily. Dean recognizes the lie in his voice right away, but says nothing.

James raises his eyebrows with a slightly sarcastic _Really?_ expression. John frowns for a moment, and then shoots the other hunter an appraising look. “Fine,” he says. He gestures to a chair. “Sit down.”

James obeys, and John sits down next to him. Dean heads over to the fridge to get a bottle of whiskey. He figures they can all use some.

James tilts his head. “So,” he begins. Dean gets out the bottle and three glasses and kicks the door to the mini-fridge shut.

John looks at him for a good long moment, saying nothing, and a vaguely annoyed look passes over James’s face before it’s gone. Dean blinks in surprise. His dad likes being the one with all the information, likes being in charge and trying to radiate a slightly intimidating aura. For the most part, he succeeds, and Dean looks up to him with awe because of it. James, for his part, doesn’t seem too impressed.

“Yes?” he prompts, sounding slightly bored, and it’s John’s turn to look annoyed when his enigmatic persona is swatted away without even being acknowledged. However, in a strangely uncharacteristic act, he swallows his pride and continues.

“The ‘mystery man’,” he says, “told me that the creature was a Rynclus, as I said before. He told me that to prove he was telling the truth, he would give me its future location and a knife that could kill it as a secondary method.”

“And?” James’s question was innocent and curious, but Dean can practically hear the cogs working together in his brain, figuring it out. John sighs.

“At first I didn’t believe him, of course. Then he procured a blade out of nowhere. It would disappear in three days, he said, so I had to work fast. He told me that the creature was going to be at Hammer Time… on the seventh of July.”

James closes his eyes and groans softly. In a low voice, he says, “So that’s why you suspected me.”

Silently, John nods. “The knife’s gone now,” he murmurs. “It disappeared when we followed you out of the bar; it’s why you aren’t dead right now.”

James runs a hand through his long hair and huffs out a sarcastic breath of laughter. “Great,” he says. “Just great. So the creature was at the bar the whole time?”

John nods again. “Probably,” he mutters, and Dean doesn’t blame him for sounding so frustrated and annoyed with himself. It’s extremely unlike John Winchester to fail on a case, especially when he had had it almost in hand. Having his son as well as what seems like an experienced hunter bear witness to it doesn’t help matters.

James shakes his head, his brows drawing together. “Wait,” he says slowly. “Something doesn’t sound right to me. Why would the man need you to kill the creature for him? Why couldn’t he just do it himself?” James’s face is getting more animated as he talks and realizes that he has a point. “He had the weapon. What if he can’t do it because it’s part of a spell, or… or something?”

“You think I haven’t thought of that?” John growls. Wrong or not, John Winchester is not going to be taken for a fool. “Look, I’ve searched everywhere for something that doesn’t age. No vampire sightings, and no summoning rituals without ingredients that are even harder to get than the blood. I thought I’d try my luck with Mr. Mysterious, and if it worked, we’d hightail it out of Texas.”

“And what if he’s planning something?” James persists, face earnest.

John scowls. “Not my problem.”

Dean frowns slightly, but says nothing. When his dad decides something, he can’t be dissuaded no matter what, and Dean isn’t stupid enough to try to argue with him. Sammy does, because sometimes they just don’t see eye-to-eye, but it always ends with his dad doing whatever he had first set out to do with a steeled jaw, and Sam pouting in the backseat. Everyone else, however, always backs down when faced with the Winchester Stubbornness.

Apparently, James is an exception.

“Not your—”James throws up his hands, either choosing to ignore or not seeing the sudden warning glint of anger in John’s eyes. “D—John, it _is_ your problem! You’re the one who got the weapon from the guy in the first place; you—”

What does this guy think he’s doing?

“ _Look_ , kid,” John snaps, standing up. Dean inwardly cringes, but James rises as well, accepting the silent challenge. He suddenly looks a hell of a lot more intimidating at his full height, fight in his posture and in his eyes, but John doesn’t seem to notice at all. “You may claim to know us, but that doesn’t make us friends, and that sure as hell doesn’t give you the right to speak to me like that. This is _my_ hunt we’re on, now, in 1997, not yours, so you can either follow my rules or _leave_.”

The two stand, facing each other and silently fuming, for what seems like an eternity. The tension in the air is palpable. Then suddenly, John turns and storms out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

~*~

Sam groans and fists a handful of his hair. Great, just great. His dad is alive, and instead of trying to, for once, make peace with him, he has to go and start an argument. Way to go, Sam Winchester.

Silently berating himself, Sam slowly sinks down into the armchair and closes his eyes. He needs to think. _Almost calling him “Dad”, really, Sam? Hopefully, they didn’t notice. And why did you have to fight? Do you even care that you haven’t seen him in years, or is the whole “coming back from the dead” thing normal enough by now that your brain just doesn’t register it?_

Sam opens his eyes to find his older brother’s gaze on him. Or was it younger brother? Well, technically, it isn’t _present Sam_ ’s brother (or future Sam, depending on the way you look at it), it was… how old was he then? Fourteen? So it’s his older and younger brother at the same time, but also his not his older brother and _not_ his younger brother…

Christ, this is confusing.

Sam nods to Dean. “Dean, thanks for sticking by. Alright, so we need to find out who the mystery man is and how to—”

“No,” Dean says softly.

Sam frowns. “Sorry?”

“No,” Dean repeats, his voice trembling slightly, and Sam notices for the first time the animosity in his brother’s hazel eyes. His own widen. No, he doesn’t want to fight with this Dean too. He opens his mouth to say something, anything to calm him down before a fight erupts, but it’s too late.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do; only Dad does.” Dean is glaring at him. “And he’s right. Don’t you dare speak to him like that. Look what you did! Now he left and…” Dean stops talking for a moment and shakes his head, his jaw clenched in anger. Sam reaches out a placating hand to calm him, but Dean swats it away and keeps going, his voice gaining in volume.

“You just… you just walked in here and started talking like you knew us! Hell, we didn’t even tell you our _names_ , and we didn’t have to ‘cause you knew them already! Just… stop it. I don’t care what you say, or what your story is, but Dad’s right; we don’t know you, and we sure as hell don’t trust you.” Dean’s face is red and his freckles are standing out. “So stop acting like you’re in charge around here. That’s Dad.” His voice drops in volume, and he sounds defeated when he continues. “It’s always been Dad.”

Dean lowers his head and falls silent. He’s never been one to yell himself hoarse when he’s was mad; he always has something he wants to say and he says it without beating around the bush. Sam knows what he must be thinking: _Sammy argues with Dad and it's getting worse_ _. Will their fighting get this bad one day? God, I hope not. No, Sammy’s better than that. I believe in him._

Something jerks in Sam’s stomach (and he vaguely registers his alarm bells going off, but he ignores them). _You believe in me, big brother?_ Because that’s what Dean does. Make hope for himself when there is none. _You shouldn’t, because I’m just going to let you down._

(Wait. This isn’t right. You can’t—)

_“You want to know what I confessed in there? What my greatest sin was? It was how many times I let you down.”_

(What’s going on? Pull yourself tog—)

Look at himself. He’s already starting to angst out on his emotions, and all it takes is his big brother yelling at him. Sam almost laughs at his own pitifulness, except maybe he had been hoping that this Dean, who didn’t know what he had done, might go more easy on him than the one back home.

(Sam…)

A tear forms in the pit of Sam’s stomach. The feeling was familiar. It had been there in the church, as well as all the times when shit like that happened to them. When Dean had sold his soul for him. When he had heard Dean’s message on his phone, calling him a monster. Right before Lucifer, when Sam had suggested killing himself. When Dean had come back from Purgatory and had found out that Sam hadn’t tried to save him. With Gadreel. Kevin. It’s guilt and shame and helplessness, a whole other kind of Pit that Sam can’t just free himself from as easily as he had the first. Not for the first time, Sam silently curses his brother for being too stubborn to let him go. He could have avoided all this. All these… issues. He would have been content in heaven. Or Hell.

This Dean is depending so much on his little brother, trying so hard to prevent him from turning into someone like… well, someone like Sam, emotional train wreck that he is.

And he’ll fail.

That had been the first time, hadn’t it?

“Talk to your brother,” Sam says finally, his tone subdued. Dean’s head shoots up at the sudden mention of his baby brother, giving Sam his full attention.

“Tell him,” Sam continues, “to stop fighting. Give in.” He wants his past self to realize this. If he could change anything… “Stop challenging Dad; listen to him like a good little soldier.” He’s aware that he might be crossing a line, but he can’t bring himself to care. His time should have been over long ago; might as well bear out the consequences. “He’s never going to leave the life; even if he tries, it’ll come around and bite him in the ass and everyone will be disappointed in him for it. You, Bobby, his dad… He can’t win. Give up, Sam Winchester.” The last part is said in a whisper.

Suddenly, a fist connects with his face, knocking his head to the side. “Shut the fuck up!” yells Dean. His voice is trembling again, this time, Sam knows for certain, with anger. “Don’t you fucking talk about Sammy like that, you hear me?” Dean’s face is inches from his and Sam doesn’t shrink back. “Don’t you fucking dare! You don’t know anything about him.” Dean’s voice quietens, but his shoulders are still heaving. “Anything.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam breathes, not knowing whether he’s apologizing for getting Dean angry or for something else. _Get it together, Sam. Come on._

(The blow knocks something back straight from where it had been missing.)

Sam had hit a sore spot, he realizes. Dean isn’t exactly the mothering type, but he’s protective about his brother, ready to defend him at all costs, except when it comes to their dad. In his mind, Dean has Sam on a metaphorical leash, trying to keep him safe from anything that will do him serious harm, but not letting him make the decision for himself. Sam knows that at this point, with other him as young as he is, if another person so much as says his name wrong, Dean will be snarling and biting at their heels like a guard dog. So angering him by attacking his brother probably wasn’t the best idea.

_Get it together, Sam._

(It’s gone now.)

God, what had he been thinking? This isn’t his Dean; he doesn’t know Sam had been talking about himself. What was he doing, lashing out like that?

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Sam murmurs, his eyes widening slightly. Emotional train wreck indeed. God.

“You better be fucking sorry,” Dean growls. “Sammy is—”

“I know,” Sam says. “And seriously, dude, I apologize. I didn’t mean to say that. I… I don’t know what got into me.” He’s… a bit confused now. He feels better, somehow.

Dean calms down slightly at this, but he’s still obviously angry.

“Really,” Sam continues, wanting to appease his brother, “I crossed a line. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, Dean. It’s just that Sam…” Sam swallows and slaps on a completely fake, please-believe-me-I’m-sorry-I-swear face, eyebrows drawing together and eyes earnest. Dean’s mocked him multiple times over his puppy dog look; it’s time to put it to the test. Now to make up some bull story. “Sam and I we’re… close, and I really care about the kid.”

Dean huffs in disbelief, so Sam upps the ante on the puppy dog eyes. “Really, I do,” he says. “He and I had a talk recently, and he sounded so…” Sam clenches his jaw but continues, reminding himself that yes, he’s _lying, only lying._ “… defeated and tired, and I felt for him.” Sam isn’t defeated, he’s just ready to let go. Not the same thing. Not at all, no. So why does it feel so hard to admit a weakness he knows he doesn’t have? “I just sorta… let it out on you,” he finishes lamely.

Luckily, Dean seems to buy it. In true Dean Winchester fashion, his eyes still display suspicion, and Sam knows that doesn’t entirely trust him still, but there’s no way he’s going to guess the truth.

“Alright,” Dean says carefully. “Just… what happens to Sammy?”

Sam shakes his head. He definitely doesn’t want to start Dean on an unjustified guilt session this early, because dammit, that’s what Dean does, and that’s exactly what he will do if Sam told him the truth. “I can’t tell you, Dean. You know that.” In truth, he has no idea just how much future information he can divulge. Will it change things? Should Sam try to change things if he can? He could save people.

But then at the same time, he could condemn them just as easily. No; better not try to mess with fate. They had already done that once and look how that had turned out.

Dean sighs. “Knew you would say something like that.” He idly kicks the armchair. “Look, just…”

“We’ll pretend this never happened,” Sam finishes for him. “Yeah, I know.” It’s how they work, after all.

Dean looks at him strangely, but finally nods. Ignoring him, Sam gets up and goes to the bathroom to wash the blood off his face. “Alright, we should research,” he calls out over the sound of the tap water running. “Look for disappearing men with magic… knives…”

He trails off and closes the valve as realization hits him. “Dean,” he says, and his brother must register something in his tone because he stops grumbling about having to actually read something with no pictures and looks up. “Yeah?”

Sam walks into the main room, running a hand through his hair. “I think I might have an idea as to what the mystery man is.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get heated up.

“And you can’t tell us _why_ , exactly?” John paces the room, agitated, not pausing to look at Sam.

_Because he’s an angel._

“I told you: you wouldn’t believe me,” Sam insists, because he has to, and he’s praying that they trust him or else this will never work out.

“Try us. How are we supposed to trust you if you don’t tell us?” John fixes Sam with a hard stare, and Sam sighs. _Dammit._ He had known this wouldn’t be easy.

“Look, I can’t. You wanna know why? Because in the future, when we first meet them, you don’t believe that they exist. So you _can’t_ know they exist until then. And me telling you now would ruin that.” He really, really hopes they’ll fall for that “preserving future timelines” bull he had gotten off Doctor Who.

“Alright,” says Dean, in his “let’s go with your blatant lie” voice. “Is there anything you _can_ tell us? Anything at all?”

“They’re very powerful; you can only kill them with their own weapons, unless you manage to trap them. They can teleport—” _Fly,_ his brain supplies helpfully, from an interesting conversation with Castiel, “—and travel in time, which is probably how he’s chasing the Rynclus in the first place, if he has a grudge against it or is hunting it.”

“They seem pretty damn impressive,” John counters. Sam inwardly smirks. If only he knew how much they could _really_ do. “How did you manage to meet one in the first place?”

 _He raised Dean from Hell,_ is stuck on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back and says instead, “In some pretty tough circumstances. Look, John… I don’t suppose he gave you a name?”

“Of course not,” his dad grunts, sounding miffed. “I’m not stupid; I would have told you.” He scowls.

John had come back later on in the night, looking not exactly happy, but definitely a bit more cooled off. After an apology that Sam had had to force through his teeth, John had turned back into his usual skeptical, commanding self.

“Alright,” Sam says, trying his best not to get annoyed. “Was he wearing a suit? Um… what did the blade look like?” Was it Uriel or one of the old God Squad members from a few years back, bothering the Winchesters again? Was it really even an angel?

“I think he was.” John frowns, this time in concentration. “He was wearing a trench coat that looked about five sizes too big on him and a tie that he hadn’t done up properly. Looked like he had dressed in the dark, and in a hurry at that. The blade was—what?” Sam had frozen up at the mention of the trench coat.

“A… trench coat?” he repeats slowly. “You—“ He’s about to ask if he’s sure, but thinks better of it. “Did he have dark hair? Blue eyes?” It couldn’t be.

John nods. “I swear, that stare was just unnerving. You know him?”

“Yeah, I… I know him.” And Sam doesn’t know whether to feel hopeful or apprehensive.

What the hell is Cas doing here?

John raises an eyebrow. “So he _is_ the all-powerful, mystery creature you thought he was?”

Sam dips his head in the affirmative, and knows his next sentence is going to get him nothing more than scoffs and disbelieving stares. “He’s… he’s one of the good guys,” he says carefully.

Sure enough, Dean guffaws at him and John’s other eyebrow lifts by a fraction. “A friendly monster? You do realize how that sounds, right?” he says dubiously, and his tone is so incredulous that Sam’s nostrils flare a tiny bit in annoyance.

“Yes,” he grinds out. “We do meet some in the future.” _Madison, Benny, Lenore, Amy…_

“Once a monster, always a monster.” John is resolute. Sam knows that no matter what he says, the man won’t be swayed in his belief— _especially if it comes from Sam_ , a nasty little voice in his head adds—and Sam won’t waste time trying to convince him.

“Sure,” he says. “Whatever. But this one is special. Most of his kind are dicks, yeah. But he’s a rebel. He doesn’t want to be like the rest of them.” To tell the truth, Sam has no idea what Castiel does or doesn’t want on that matter, but he’s not willing to start another argument about something stupid. So he twists his words a tiny bit, altering “he rebelled for Dean” and “he slaughtered thousands of his own kind” into more suspicion-friendly phrases.

“So just because he stuck it to the man means you trust him?” Dean’s tone is incredulous. “Dude, you gotta raise your standards a bit.”

“I trust him,” Sam says, “and so do you, and everyone that counts. He’s done a lot for us and has more than proven himself, and I don’t have time to get into an extended debate with you.” _Plus, I’m pretty sure you’ll lose. Pre-law here._

“Alright.” John sounds like he doesn’t want to stir up another argument either. “Let’s go with what you say. How come one of your… friends from the future is here?”

“I have no idea,” Sam answers truthfully. “I’m just as surprised as you are.” Can Cas get him back to his own time? It can’t be that hard for him, right? Maybe, just maybe, Sam can go home soon.

John scowls, dissatisfied with his answer, and Sam clenches his jaw. Leave it to his dad to make everything ten times more difficult than it has to be. “Fine,” John grumbles finally. “Can you get him to come back? I’d like to have a word or two with him.” The way he says it implies that it probably won’t be a pleasant conversation.

And then there’s that.

“I’ve tried,” Sam says, dropping his gaze. “He… won’t answer.” He’s prayed—of course he has, as soon as Dean’s back had been turned—but Cas hasn’t answered, and Sam knows why. Jimmy Novak won’t be possessed by Castiel until at least 2008. Cas himself won’t know Sam until then, except perhaps as Lucifer’s chosen vessel, which doesn’t exactly paint him in the best light. So unless prayers can time-travel as well, he has no idea of how to get to the angel. “I don’t think it’ll work back in this time.”

John sighs. “Didn’t think so,” he says shortly, and Sam bites back an angry retort. That is so like his father, to have such low expectations in anything he doesn’t really believe in. _Like you, Sam,_ the nasty little voice in his head speaks out again, and he wills it to shut up.

“Alright, so, forgetting your freak friend, we can gank this son of a bitch anyway, right?” Dean speaks up, dismissing the subject of the absent angel. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

John nods. “Actually, that’s what I came back to tell you about,” he says. "Vamps aren’t the only thing that doesn’t age.”

After a second of awkward silence which John is probably trying to use to be enigmatic, Sam raises his eyebrows. “So?”

John smirks, a satisfied glint in his eye. “There’s been a demon sighting.”

~*~

This time it’s Dean who rides in the back seat, and he’s not all that happy about it, but John is quizzing James and asking questions about demons and monsters so it’s probably for the best. James is answering the questions like a pro, not even hesitating, and Dean feels a small amount of respect for the man because of it. Demons are rare; Dean had encountered very few in his lifetime, so any amount of substantial knowledge about them is admirable.

Apparently “demon sighting” means someone had seen black smoke force its way down someone else’s throat. It had happened a few hours ago, and since the first someone knew some stuff about the supernatural and had connections thanks to an old case, he had called John.

They park outside an abandoned building, of all things, and John, unnecessarily, mutters, “This is the place. Keep quiet and stay low.”

James exits the passenger seat one limb at a time, much more smoothly than before. He takes out his gun and cradles it close to his chest, crouching down and approaching the building with completely silent footfalls; sure of his movements despite his tall build. Dean is reminded of a panther stalking its prey, and shivers slightly as he observes the older hunter. This guy is deadly in the way he moves; it’s a good thing he’s on their side.

Suddenly, they hear a scream coming from inside the building, and all the stealth they might have had is lost as John yells, “Go, go!” Dean swears that he sees James shoot him an irritated look as they rush towards the noise.

John and James knock the door down with one shove, and the first thing Dean sees as his eyes take in the ruins of the room is the terrified man tied to a beam. Dean runs to him and cuts his bonds.

“Get the fuck outta here,” he says, and the man doesn’t need to be told twice.

Meanwhile, his dad and James have the demon cornered. She’s possessing a petite black-haired woman whose pretty lips are pulled back in a snarl.

“Winchesters,” she hisses. “Shoulda known.” Her eyes light on James as he approaches her at a crouch. “And what is this?” Her mouth curls upwards in a sly smile. “Someone doesn't belong here."

“How do you know our name?” John hisses, circling carefully. “We haven’t met many of your kind before.”

“Oh, I _know_ you,” she says. “Doesn’t everyone? What do you think, Gigantor? The Winchester name seem familiar?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” James grits out. He holds up a serrated knife. “Luckily, I don’t really care either, so I have no reason to wait to kill you.”

Dean frowns in confusion. Killing a demon? You can’t kill a demon. James isn’t going to get anywhere with empty threats. They have to be careful; once they exorcize the demon, the blood will no longer work. They have to get it while the thing is still possessing the body.

James moves forward in a sudden swift movement, knife slashing in front of him with calculated speed, before getting thrown back against the wall. John barely moves forward before he’s sent flying after him. Dean hangs back, keeping to the shadows.

The demon wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. It comes away bloody. There’s a thin cut along her jaw and she’s no longer sporting that disturbingly cheerful smirk. Dean almost misses it when her features twist into a venomous snarl.

“Still taking risks with your pathetic life, I see,” she spits out, and Dean is surprised to see that she’s addressing James, who’s clenching his jaw and squirming against the wall. Does he… know her? Because that’s certainly accumulated hatred that’s on the demon’s face. She's sure of whom she’s talking to.

Apparently John notices it too, because he stays quiet and surveys the scene playing out in front of them with a newfound wary curiosity. Obviously the demon has something to say.

And she says it. “Do you know why it chose you?” she sneers. “Out of all the people in the town, it baited you? Oh yes, it knew you were there,” she says when she sees James’s eyes snap up in surprise. “It’s because it finds the most pitiful souls, and it _drains their life force_ from the patheticness that they feel. The more messy emotions you wrack up, the better, boyo.”

She leans in close to him as he bares his teeth, unable to free himself. “And oh, if you aren’t just a _wellspring_ of delicious emotions. I can feel them, you know. Perks of being a demon. So much guilt, so much despair, hopelessness. You’ve all but given up inside, haven’t you? Even after all you’ve been through?”

Dean creeps up behind her silently, not daring to breath.

The demon laughs, her voice lowering to a whisper. “I wonder what your new friends will think when you tell them that—”

Dean kicks her forward and she loses her concentration, falling into James, her body arching and flashing with red electricity as he twists something into her, turning it up and drawing it out as her lifeless form falls to the floor, unmoving. Dean is taken aback by the momentary flash of _something_ in his eyes, something dark and vicious and untamed, before it’s gone in an instant.

“Well,” James says. “That’s that, then.”

~*~

Everyone is still for a moment. John and Dean are staring at the body of the demon in shock, and Sam takes the momentary pause to stretch his arms, shaking out the stiffness. He knows what's coming next. 

Dean speaks up, his voice quiet. "There was a girl inside there."

Oh. Well maybe not, then. 

"Well," Sam scratches the back of his neck, suddenly at a loss. "We wouldn't have gotten the blood without harming her in some way," he offers, even as he sees Dean's expression harden and knows it's the wrong response. "Look," he huffs, trying a different approach. "You know we needed it. Killing her is a lot easier than restraining--"

"Easier?" Dean sounds angry. "You didn't even think about that girl. You just..." He motions helplessly. "I thought you were a hunter. What happened to actually _saving_ people's lives?"

Sam says nothing, averting his eyes. “ _She was dispensable”_ is on the tip of his tongue, and he swallows it back, ashamed that it’s the first thought that crosses his mind. Dean is right, and Sam wonders what it says about his life that some part of him is surprised at the apparent change in his brother's perspective. 

"Maybe he isn't a hunter." John's voice cuts in. "You heard what the demon said. What did it mean?" The last part is addressed to Sam. "And how did it know you? Just who exactly are you, James?"

He sounds ten seconds away from pointing a gun at Sam. 

Sam feels his expression darken. "That's my business," he says. 

"I don't think so," John replies, a new realization creeping into his tone. "That demon mentioned our name, me and my sons', and you said that you hunted with us a while back, nothing more." John’s gaze pierces his, searching. "Now, we haven't met a lot of demons. They're rare. The chances of meeting one that knows _both_ of us, well," he trails off. "Now what I think, James, is that something big happened on this hunt. Something that gets us in the mix with demons. That involves me enough to have the right to ask: What. Is. Going. On."

Shit. 

"Fine," Sam concedes. "We ran into a demon. Had some beef. That's it. Maybe it's this one, in the future. I don't know how that works."

"But it can't be, since you apparently killed it," Dean says, catching on to what his dad is getting at. 

"Look," Sam says, stalling. He's getting backed into a corner, fast, and hopes they can’t hear the hint of desperation that’s creeping into his voice despite himself. "I don't know what's going on here anymore than you do. Maybe it can time-travel too, and chased us back to a place when we were both together. I don’t know." 

This gives Dean and his dad pause. Sam holds up his hands. "I swear, I'm not," he swallows, "in league with it, nor have I ever been. I didn't lead it here, or whatever it is that you think."

"Alright," John says, "I'll buy that. But what about the other stuff it said? I personally couldn’t care less about your psychological state, as long as you’re not gonna involve me and my boys in any of it.”

“Trust me,” Sam huffs, “That doesn’t come until after I meet you.” It’s true, in a way. His and Dean’s lives have been disrupted since their dad went missing all those years ago, and Dean busted into his room at Stanford. Sam avoids his brother’s inquisitive gaze, not trusting himself to not give something away.

“Good enough for me.” John turns to head out the door. He looks back just as he’s about to leave. “Coat the branch, then meet back at the car. We’re gonna hunt this thing down, and we're gonna kill it.”

Sam nods at his retreating back and settles his hands on his hips. Time to get bloody.

Turning over the body with a grimace, he kneels down. “The blood’ll still work,” he says to Dean, in case he’s listening. “It’s like lamb’s blood, or any other ingredient like that. As long as it died a demon, it’s perfectly good.”

Dean’s quiet, but he doesn’t follow John back to the Impala, so Sam figures he just doesn’t want to make conversation, and stays silent as he gets the job done.

After a minute, Dean speaks up. “I’m glad Sammy’s not here.”

“And why is that?” Sam keeps his tone neutral. Not very difficult, since he’s genuinely curious.

“There are some... things he just shouldn’t be around.”

Sam stops what he’s doing. “You mean me.” It’s not a question.

Dean steps back, shakes his head. “You’ve got issues, man,” he says, and Sam feels the familiar clench in his gut at the unsaid, _and I don’t want to deal with them._ “There’s something that Dad missed, somehow. I’ve never seen someone so angry at something that did practically nothing to him. No, listen,” he says firmly as Sam opens his mouth to interrupt. “I know it was a demon, but... You were just so _angry_ , man. You’ve gotta get revenge therapy or something and sort out your shit, because that ain’t a healthy mindset to run around with, especially not as a hunter.”

“You sound like my brother,” Sam scoffs before he can stop himself, and then snaps his mouth shut. He doesn’t feel like clarifying, and his throat is suddenly suspiciously tight. His Dean has left Sam to his own devices recently, and even though he appreciates not being treated like the baby brother anymore, it still hurts a bit that Dean acts as though helping him through his shit is a chore he’s forced to bear with.

“Yeah, well,” Dean scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Force of habit, I guess. Look, just...” He shrugs. “Clean yourself up. You’ll feel better for it.”

“Thanks,” Sam says stiffly, the neither-here-nor-there oddity of the conversation leaving him kind of at a loss. “Um, I’ve got the blood. Let’s go.”

“Righto,” Dean says too quickly, and Sam doesn’t have to look to know that he winces at himself. An unbidden smile tugs at his lips despite everything, and he lets it break out into a grin once Dean has his back to him. Some things never change.

~*~

“So you’ve been a hunter your whole life?” John and James have actually been having a half-decent conversation the whole car ride, and Dean’s hardly daring to hope that the peace will continue for at least the rest of the night.

“That’s right.” James slams the passenger door shut and heads inside. “Born into the life.”

“Are you any good?” John asks, and Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Is his dad making a _joke_?

“I’d like to think so, yeah,” James chuckles. They reach John and Dean’s room and Dean inserts the key in the lock. He’s starting to see why they’d agree to work with James in the future.

The door slides open without Dean having to turn the key.

“Um, Dad,” Dean says, but John has already noticed and strides into the room, cursing when he takes in its state. The furniture’s been dragged around and flipped over half-hazardously, all their notes on the vics and research papers are strewn about the room, and the whole place overall is wrecked.

“Fuck!” Dean swears vehemently. “Fucker trashed everything.” He kicks at a chair. It topples.

“Dean, stop,” his dad orders. Dean digs his hands in his pockets. “Sorry.”

“There’s a note.” Dean turns around. James is plucking off a piece of paper taped to the inside of the door. “’Stop looking for me,’” he reads. He looks up, frowning. “From the Rynclus, then?”

Dean squints, noticing something. “There’s something on the back,” he says. James turns it over and scans it before paling dramatically. Terror flashes in his eyes for a split second and the paper falls from his fingertips. By the time he recovers, Dean’s picked it up.

“The hell?” he mutters, not noticing how James winces almost imperceptibly at his words. On the back of the paper is a crudely drawn picture of a barbed cage, with the caption, “Guess who else I can transport through time?”

“It’s... meant for me,” James says, voice shaking with the slight tremor of someone who’s scared but trying to get over it. “It’s a warning.”

“What does it mean?” John takes the paper from Dean. “Who is he talking about?”

“Someone dangerous.” James clears his throat, apparently getting a hold on himself. “You don’t want him around, trust me.”

“How likely is it that the creature can bring him here?” John wants to know.

“I... very unlikely.” James sounds extremely uncertain. “I think. I hope.”

“Well, we’ll just have to steel ourselves and hope nothing too bad happens.” John starts pacing. Dean knows he’s purposely ignoring James’s reaction to give the other hunter a chance to recover. “Whatever he is, we’ll deal. We’re hunters. Someone has to kill these monsters.”

“I know.” James take a deep breath. “We’ll gank this thing before he can do anything,” he says. “He’s probably bluffing, right? Yeah.” His voice lowers as he apparently tries to convince himself. He turns away from them as he keeps muttering. “Come on man, he’s locked away. Can’t get you.”

Dean frowns, because he almost thinks he hears “Sam” instead of “man”, but he dismisses it. It’s been too long since he’s seen his little brother, and he misses the kid. At the same time, he’s oddly grateful that Sammy’s away for this. There’s something about this grown man whose shell keeps cracking that’s frighteningly unstable, more so than his dad can see. Dean doesn’t know how he can tell, but he sees it every time some harsh emotion flits across James’s eyes before vanishing completely the next second. Whatever he’s hiding—because he is hiding something, Dean’s sure of it—he’s doing it very, very well.

So why can Dean see right past it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the moment, this story isn't going to be too long, less than 20k words probably, but I'm debating whether or not to add another part after a certain specific event happens... I kind of want to see more of this story. Or maybe I'll make a sequel?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some information is acquired. Oh, and something happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so for all you folks holding out 'til this chapter, I give you words. And something new that makes it more interesting because you deserve it for waiting this long, you silly you. I love you.

John’s pacing the motel room, hand fisted in his hair, Dean is frowning and mouthing the words to the book he’s skimming, and Sam is thinking.

He feels a bit bad the he’s not trying to figure out how to locate the Rynclus. He’s hunched over the table, flipping idly through a book that he can’t name and pretending to do research. He’s staring straight ahead as he thinks, leaning his elbow on the table to block the view and to look like he’s just concentrating on the job. In reality, his thoughts are spinning around in his head a mile a minute. He has a million questions he’s asking himself.

Namely, how did Cas get involved in this at all?

(The _canhebringHIMbackcanhewillhenonono_ gets shoved to the back of his mind and firmly trampled on).

How did he know to come here, to this exact time, and tell John about the creature? Simple: Cas finds out about it when Sam gets back into his own time, pops back in 1997, and passes on the info. But for Sam to get back and for Cas to know... that means that Cas has to come fetch Sam. And Sam has no way of contacting the angel.

The only way that Cas could possible know Sam was stuck was if he somehow managed to track the Rynclus back here, or if someone told him. But if he was following the creature, he would be here, wouldn’t he? Which meant that someone must have told him. And the only someone that would be there, with Cas, who’s here now, is...

Which means that Dean has to remember for seventeen years that Sam, random stranger that he is, was trapped in the past.

Which means that “James Demalto” has to be prominent to him.

Which means that maybe, just maybe...

Sam should tell him who he really is.

Sam groans and leans his head in his hands. All this mistrust and antagonism could have been so easily avoided had he done that in the first place... but he had to go and be a stubborn little bitch. He’s caught between wanting to tell them, and dreading to see their reaction. This would have been easier if Dean wasn’t so damn perceptive. Now he’s got a glimpse of the mess that is Sam’s psyche, and Sam doesn’t want to see the surprise on his family’s faces slowly give way to horror and disappointment as they realize who he is. He’s aware that he’s not exactly the most mentally stable of people, but he knows that, and he’s come to terms with it. He also knows that it’s bleeding through into the way he acts, but he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to put on more than a flimsy facade before. He wasn’t counting on being around people who knew him well enough to tell it’s there. He wasn’t prepared for all of this to happen. He still isn’t, even now. He's never needed to be before. His Dean hasn’t really confronted him about himself like this one has, hasn’t wanted to fix it at all. To be honest, Sam had half thought he hadn’t noticed.

Apparently, he had.

The thought hurts, somewhere numb and subconscious at the back of his mind that he doesn’t quite register. That Dean doesn’t think it’s worth trying to fix up his little brother anymore.

“James?”

John’s voice makes Sam blink blearily as he shakes himself out of his thoughts. “Yeah, D—John, um... what’s up?”

“Did you find anything?” The older hunter’s voice is slightly impatient. “You’ve been sitting there for a while without moving.”

“Uh, no, sorry.” Sam rubs at one eye and casts a quick glance at his watch. It’s two in the morning.

“Well, you’re obviously no good when you’re tired.” John sighs with what Sam thinks is a little too much exasperation than the situation calls for.

“Apparently not.” Sam raises his eyebrows and gets up. “And we’re not getting anywhere, so I’m going to head back to my room and catch some shut-eye.” He hangs by the door. “Wake me if you find anything. Goodnight.”

“’Night,” Dean calls mutely. Sam catches John shooting him a glare and chuckles to himself before closing the door softly.

Well, that went well.

Once he’s back to his own room, he locks the door and unfolds the pieces of paper he had tucked into his inner jacket pocket, spreading them out on the coffee table.

“Now, let’s do some research,” he mutters to himself, pulling up a chair.

Out of all the victims, none (that they know of) have gone back to their own time at the right place. The Rynclus apparently feeds on the uncooked years and the loss that they feel, so letting them back would therefore be counter-productive.

Now what would happen if one of its meals were to return to where they belonged?

Would it annul the whole process? Would the Rynclus feel the loss, and go after it, or would it not sense anything at all?

Well, there’s one way to find out.

Sam needs to get back to his own time anyway, whether or not Cas shows up. If a time travel spell is the way to do it, then so be it.

It’s not like he’s new to the concept of messing with something that he shouldn’t be messing with.

The spell he had found buried somewhere in John’s notes of this case is entitled: “To return what is lost.” There aren’t any ingredients involved, except that it needs something associated with the thing that’s lost. It’s a simple retrieval spell, but according to John’s jot notes, it has the possibility of transferring a lost object through time to its owner. Sam can only hope it’ll work on people, too.

The spell has to be done when the sun is at its highest peak, so he has until tomorrow at noon. He stands up to go pass out on the bed when a piece of paper drifts to the ground, small enough to have drifted away by the force of him getting up. He picks it up, frowning.

It’s part of a larger text, typed out. It reads: “The Rynclus’s power, while it is alive, creates a bubble of time. Theoretically, no other time-travelling creature of lesser authority or power of time travel should be able to interfere with its hunt. However, it must be noted that no tests have been conducted to prove this theory, as getting two creatures to time travel to one area would be a paradox by statement of the theory itself.”

Sam blinks and re-reads it, too tired to understand it entirely the first time, but when he gets it, he feels a sudden spark of hope. This might mean that Cas didn’t follow him here… because he _couldn't_. But if Sam draws the creature back to 2014… Sam sighs, his brain still stubbornly trying to work it out. If the spell doesn’t work due to this “bubble of time”, his only hope is to keep trying to hunt the creature down with Dean and John, and then perform the spell, which could take who knows how long. But if it does work… _His_ Dean and Cas would be at home, and he’d be bringing the fight to them.

He also wants to leave as soon as possible after telling Dean who he really is.

~*~

Dean gets woken up the next morning by his dad, who’s already dressed and ready to go. By the time Dean’s out of the bathroom, it’s around 8:30, which means that John apparently doesn’t have hope of accomplishing much today.

They knock on James’s door and he opens it with a quick tug at the corner of his lips as a greeting. “Either of you have breakfast yet?” he says, and Dean shakes his head.

“Maybe it’s time we get to know you a bit, James,” John says, and Dean can see that James peacefully acknowledges the fact that they want to find out more about him.

“Fair enough,” he concedes, and then they’re off to the nearest diner.

~*~

“Got a lot on your mind?” John asks.

James stops prodding his eggs with his fork and looks up. “Huh? Oh, sorry.” He takes a bite. "I was just thinking about something.”

John pauses, obviously waiting for him to elaborate.

“So, about what we’re going to do in terms of the creature,” James begins.

"Obviously, it'll be hard to find and hunt down." John interrupts him and sits back in his chair, apparently done eating. "I mean, the demon yesterday seemed to know about it, but it didn't exactly get the chance to tell us anything."

Dean feels a little uncomfortable at what he's implying. Not about James killing the demon, but about what's probably John's method of interrogation. Torture isn't really something that comes up often, and the one time that Dean had seen his dad do it, he had left the room and puked in the nearest commercial trash bin.

James sighs, bringing back Dean's attention from his own thoughts. "We can't dwell on what the demon could have known," he says. "Now, the last place the creature was at that we know for sure is—"

"Riley Hutchins, the three-year old girl who's now twelve," John finishes the thought for him.  "We'll go to her house today, see what she knows. That's settled. Dean and I’ve talked about it already."

Dean exchanges an uneasy glance with James. It's surprisingly like what he and Sam do when their dad decides on something without consulting them. A brief look of annoyance flits across James's face, but the expression is gone the next second. Not for the first time. Dean is amazed at how expressive James can be in those small glimpses that Dean manages to catch. He looks at his dad, but John doesn’t seem to notice, as there’s nothing sharp in his gaze (other than the usual) when he looks at James.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve decided that,” James decrees in what Dean decides might be some cleverly masked form of sarcasm. “So our day is sorted. Now, I take it you’ve got some questions for me?”

“What’s your favourite colour?” John smirks, and James lips quirk up in a smile.

“Blue,” he replies.

“Textbook,” Dean says, and James huffs in amusement.

“So,” John says, and they sober up immediately from his tone. It’s time to ask the real questions. “Which year are you from, exactly?”

James sips at his orange juice, apparently unconcerned with getting grilled. “Your kids are grown,” he says. “I don’t want you trying to change anything if you know when I meet you.”

Fair enough. Dean says, “How tall is Sammy?” because he needs to know.

James looks at him with honest surprise on his face before he barks out a laugh. “Not telling,” he says. “I want you to find out your way.” He pauses before saying his next sentence, as if debating whether to say it or not. “I take it he’s... not the biggest kid in the playground?”

“He’s in high school,” Dean offers, “But yeah. Friggin’ pipsqueak.” He feels an affectionate smile tug at his mouth. “He’ll grow. Probably.”

“Hopefully into a good hunter,” John says, and James stops smiling and shrugs uneasily. “My boys any good with you?”

“They _are_ very good,” James says, and there it is again, a small spark of humour in his eyes as if he’s telling his own private joke. The rest of his face stays neutral. “Saved a bunch of people. So yeah. Good hunters.”

Dean’s feeling a small tinge of disappointment that’s slowly gnawing its way bigger at the apparent news that Sam won’t get out of the life even when he’s an adult. He knows it’s a stupid wish, but some part of him had always hoped.... He wants to talk to James about it, ask him more questions, but his dad’s here and Dean knows he won’t exactly approve.

“As good as me?” A low smile is apparent on John’s face that makes it clear he’s joking, but Dean’s surprised when James’s eyebrows quirk upwards and his answering “Yeah,” seems at least semi-serious. “To a lot of people, yeah,” he repeats, and smiles, apparently to himself.

“They, uh,” John clears his throat, “They hunt with me, or...?”

“They... do their own thing,” James says. “But when I met you guys, you were together. It was a big hunt.”

“Awesome.” Dean’s had enough of this conversation. He has a bad feeling about what John’s going to ask next, and hurries to change the subject. “So, the little girl? What was her name again?”

There’s a pause, in which Dean prays to all the gods he doesn’t believe in that his dad will bite, and then John says, “Riley Hutchins,” and Dean breathes out a silent sigh of relief. He looks at James, hoping for another strange insight into his emotions, but the other hunter is staring at John with a Mona Lisa smile. Apparently, he had guessed the reason for the sudden subject change.

John’s voice is light when he talks about the girl, but the calculating look in his eyes betrays his thoughts. He’s latched on to what might be important information, and he’s going to get it sooner or later.

~*~

They knock on the door, and Dean admits to being impressed by the friendly smile James manages to slap on with practiced ease. “Hello. We’re with the local police department,” James says to the girl who opens it, flashing a fake badge that Dean really hopes she won’t look too closely at if it’s from the future. “Officer Harrison, and these are my co-workers, Officers Westrom and Ray-Jones. We’d like to speak to Riley, please. It’s about her disappearance?”

The girl, who can’t be more than maybe twenty, suddenly sniffles and waves them in. Dean finds it strange that she doesn’t question the police apparently showing up at her house twice about the same subject. “Riley, baby,” she calls, “There are some gentlemen here to speak with you. Be nice, okay sweetie?”

“Mom,” comes the whine as a preadolescent girl drags herself into the living room. Dean and John exchange quick, surprised glances. “I _heard_ them. I’m not friggin’ deaf, you know.” She smacks her gum and eyes Dean up with the lack of subtlety that one would expect from a twelve-year-old girl. Dean inwardly groans. So it’ll be _this_ kind of Q &A. Awesome.

“Riley,” James says, and Dean is surprised at how soft his voice gets when speaking to the kid. “Hello. My name is James. This is Dean, and John.” He gestures to them and Dean knows without looking that his dad’s irritated at his real name being given. Although, without the correct last names, it couldn’t be that bad, right?

Nah. What the hell was James up to this time?

“We need to ask you a few questions. Er, perhaps this is better if we sit...? It might take a bit.” He looks inquisitively at the mom, who hurriedly mutters, “Of course,” and gestures them to the sofa. Dean frowns to himself, not liking how unsettled she seemed. Was it solely because of Riley’s whole age thing, or was there something else?

“Thank you.” James smiles warmly at her. “What’s your name?” he asks, tone still gentle.

“Emmerson,” she mutters, and then disappears to some other part of the house.

“So, Riley,” John starts. The girl looks over at him and seems to shrink back a little. Dean can tell James is hiding a smile. John huffs in displeasure, and the girl looks even more scared. James clears his throat.

“Tell us what happened last week,” he says to her. He interrupts as she takes a deep breath, obviously to launch into a rehearsed speech. “Your version, not the version you told the police.”

Riley looks at her shoes and kicks back on the sofa a little, then looks at James’s open face and seems to come to a decision.

“I was with my foster parents,” she said. “Then last week, we were going to the park and I ended up here. Mom came and, like, I knew it was Mom ‘cuz I recognized her still sorta, and then I told her my name and then they did some tests on me and then she cried a lot and I’m here.” She sort of shrugs at the end, as if to say, “Well, that happened, what can you do about it, really?”

“So, she missed your childhood,” John muses to himself, and Dean wonders what he had figured out. “Hey,” and this is directed at Riley, “Where exactly did you pop up here?”

“Outside the house,” Riley replies. She fidgets.

“Riley,” James says, face open and honest. Dean gets the feeling he’s good with kids, and he’s surprised, because James doesn’t seem put together enough to deal with adults, let alone small children. “This whole situation must be super scary for you,” he says. “Right?”

Riley shrugs. “Not really,” she replies. “It’s kinda like... I’ve been in a few foster homes, you know? And know that I’ve found my mom, I feel a lot better. She’s not gonna give me away because she doesn’t want me anymore.”

Dean feels a pang at her words. “Hey, kid,” he begins, and then, because he doesn’t know what to follow it up with, he says, “You’re good now. You’re back home.”

Riley blushes at him, her freckles standing out, and Dean doesn’t know whether or not to regret his words. He’s saved from further thought about the matter because right then Emmerson comes back, head down and walking quickly as if to pass by unnoticed.

“Emmerson,” James calls to her, and then voices what they’re all thinking’s a good idea right now: “We’d like to ask you some questions about this. Just routine double-checking.”

“I... really don’t see what I have to do with this investigation,” she says nervously. “Maybe I’ll just—“

“Emmerson,” James says firmly. “Please. This’ll be quick, I promise.”

She sits down and stares at the ground, fiddling with her skirt.

“Now tell us what happened.”

She takes a deep breath. “A little over a week ago,” she says shakily, “Riley got k-kidnapped.” She clears her throat. “Then she suddenly showed up in front of the house a few days later. That’s all.”

“Is it?” James leans forward. “And how old was Riley when she got kidnapped?”

Emmeson hesitates a second before answering, “Twelve.”

“Was she?” James’s voice turns sympathetic, low, you-can-trust-me. “Or was she three years old? You can trust us, Emmerson.”

“No, I’m sure now.” She nods, trying to reassure herself. “Yes. She was twelve.”

“Emmerson, please,” James says. “Tell us how old she really was. We won’t tell anyone anything, promise. But there are people’s lives in danger, and once we know, we’ll be able to save them. Only then.”

She says nothing for a while, but then Riley bursts out, “Tell them the truth, Mom,” and she starts to cry. James reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says soothingly. “You can tell us. It’s okay.”

Dean’s a little weirded out by the spontaneous tears, and he’s glad that James is here to question her. No doubt that himself and John wouldn’t exactly do a very good job of it.

“Sh—she was three years old,” Emmerson hiccups, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “My _baby_.” She starts crying again.

John stays completely quiet throughout all this, and Dean glances at him to see what he’s sure is the same expression that’s on his own face.

“We’d just moved here,” Emmerson says finally. “N-no one knew us. Then one day we’re going out for grocery shopping, and I t-turn my back on her for one second to pick out her f-formula,” she sniffles, “And then when I turn back, she’s g-gone!”

“Hey,” James says, patting her back, “Hey, it’s alright. She’s back. She’s safe.”

She nods, but sniffs again.

“Now, you said you were new to town?” James asks. “Did you know a lot of people?”

“I didn’t know anyone.” Emmerson wipes at her eye. “I—I joined a support group and they’re l-lovely people, though. They really h-helped me.”

“Did you? That’s good, then. It’s always… good to have someone to help you through a crises.” James only hesitates for a split second while he’s saying it, then he’s back on track.

“It was a mutual thing,” she explains, her voice steadying. “We all had problems. We… we were all there for one another. For some people it was really bad.”

Sam has a thing he does whenever he figures something out. His eyes widen minutely and he zeroes his focus in on whatever he’s concentrating on. James does the same thing now.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Exactly… how bad, Emmerson?”

She shrugs. “It’s kinda personal, you know?” She looks down at the floor. “But they were pretty broken up. It was… you know… _that_ kind of support group.”

“I see.” James exchanges a glance with John and Dean, his eyes clearly saying, _Clue here, clue here, looky looky._ Dean gets the strange urge to roll his eyes and shoot him back a look that says, _I know, we’re not idiots, god Sammy._

What—

“Can you give us the address of this place?”

“Sure.” She scribbles it down on the back of a receipt lying on a coffee table on the carpet on the floor in the house—

James gives her his phone number (which won’t work anyway) and Dean’s suddenly not paying too close attention to what’s going on and the next thing he knows they’re out the door and leaving and Dean’s wondering _what the hell—_

“Let’s have an early lunch,” James suggests, somewhere, somewhen and his dad says something elseprobably notgood not agreeing nonono and Dean doesn’t know what’s going onwhat’s going on what sgoi ng o n

 _And Sammy and_ Lucifer _and Sam nononononoSamnoNONO!_

_“Sammy!” he yells, and James turns aroundsurprisedwhyishesurprised_

_Bro ken brok en broke   n_

“Dean?”

_KevinohGODnoKevin_

“Dean!”

_He did it HEdidit HEDIDIT_

_“Sammy?”_

_CrackCrackCrack goes the Wall_

_Wall in your head_

_In your head_

_Go to sleep_

_To sleep_

_To sl eep._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the planifications have begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rather short. That's because it's the calm before the storm, so to speak. The stuff we must clear out of the way before the battle begins.  
> In other words, the next chapter is big. Quite big. I'm about 2000 words in, and still haven't reached Extra Special Thing. It'll be a game-changer. I'm a bit scared. Are you?

"Dean!" His brother's eyes roll back into his head as his body collapses into a heap on the pavement. Sam lunges forward, pulling him up and shaking him. " _Dean!_ "

John stands there behind him, an odd expression on his face, but doesn't say anything, doesn't move. Sam doesn't notice, too focused on his brother. 

"Dean!" he repeats, and breathes a sigh of relief when Dean's body straightens up, and his eyes open. 

Then Dean's lips stretch out over his teeth in an eerie mockery of a smile, and he shoves Sam away with an inhuman force, sending him stumbling backwards until he falls. 

"Get away from me, freak," he says, but his voice is wrong, all slimy and groaning and hissing all at once. 

Sam straightens up, gets to his feet. "What have you done with him?" he demands. "Get out of him right now!"

"Dean... Winchester." It seems to try out the name on its tongue. "You know, it was a contest between the two of you. Which one I should pick. You won by a margin, lucky boy."

John steps forward. "What are you?" he demands, though they both know, even as it speaks.

It turns to him. "You know what I am," it says. "And you," now looking at Sam, "know what I'm here for. So how about this: you agree to stop what it is you're planning, and I promise that he won't remember what I'm showing him."

"What are you talking about?" Sam says lowly. 

"Oh, you know; all those delicious little... _tendrils_ of memory that leak from your freakish little skull into my mind." The creature licks its lips. "All your itty bitty feewings. I can see them, you know. Your coconut's pretty cracked." It laughs. "Oh, look, _those_ memories are the _best_. Deano loves those ones, let me tell you."

"Our motel room," Sam realizes, some muted corner of his mind figuring it out. "The receptionist. You knew what she was thinking. That's how you found us." That's how it must know about the spell. 

"Pretty sly, paying without cash, eh?" It winks. "Should I have told her what happened to all your other... dalliances?"

John shoots him an inquisitive look. "What is he talking about?" he asks. 

"Wh--Does it matter?!" Sam spins around to face him fully. "And why aren't you the least bit perturbed by all this? That's your _son_ in there!"

John tilts his head. "He won't kill him, will he?" he asks, and his voice is innocent, like a child's. "He's done no one any harm."

Sam slowly turns back around to glare at the Rynclus. "Stop it. You're doing this to him, I know it."

"I can't have Big Daddy trying to meddle with me, now can I?” It gestures at John and he topples. “I want to talk to you, not fight. Besides, he has a point. Younger Sammy would have thought so too. What happened to all that compassion? I'm not hurting anyone. If anyone died, that was completely by their own hand."

"People have killed themselves?" Sam shakes his head when the Rynclus opens Dean's mouth to say something. "No. That can't be all you do. You get into people's heads, know their thoughts, manipulate them, _possess_ them?" The creature wearing his brother's body takes a step forward and Sam takes one back.

"There's something more to this," he says, "And I'm going to find out what it is."

"You do that," it hisses. "As long as you don't perform your little... ritual."

"What is it that you fear so much?" Sam says. "All it'll do is send me back. You're free to follow." If it won't follow him, he stays until the job's done. No argument. 

"It won't send you back, you foolish boy," it snarls. "Nothing will send you back. You're trapped here, forever. Castiel? Your little 'out'? Doesn't want to come get you. He thinks Dean's better off without you constantly whining and grabbing and needing him."

“Then what does it do?” Sam says stubbornly, intent on ignoring its words, even as the treacherous little voice in his head screams his guilt. “You don’t seem to like it.”

“You won’t either.” It bares Dean’s teeth. “It will… drain you, for lack of a better word. Everything that I feed on will escape you, laid out. Your memories. Your emotions. You’ll see it all, of course, it’ll be horrible for you and you won’t lose any of it, but you won’t be ripe enough to eat. So you see, we both have something to lose.”

“If it means getting rid of you, I’ll do it.” Sam swallows.

The Rynclus smiles in a way that sends chills up Sam spine. “It won’t get rid of me,” it says. “I’ll just move on to the next one. And you don’t want that, do you? That address that the crying girl gave you, you know there’s no point in going. You know that I’m still after you, that I haven’t finished my work with the others. So you perform that ritual, I’ll go after someone else, someone new, and you’ll be insane, unable to help. Your father and your brother?” He gestures to John’s unconscious form. “You’re not telling them, because—”

“You moved on to the other victims in a day,” Sam interrupts quietly. “But you’ve been following me.”

“But why?” It tilts its head. “Why, Sammy, is the question we all must ask.”

“Because,” Sam grits out, “I have a lot to feed on. I know. I’m fucked up. We all are.”

It smiles again. “This hasn’t happened before, me taking so long. And you can imagine how the family reunion will go when John figures it all out. You do know the ritual will reveal who you are, right? They’ll _see_ who you are. You know, I doubt Daddy’ll even _ask_ Dean to save you this time around.”

_Save him, or kill him._

“As soon as he finds out…”

_You’re Lucifer’s chosen vessel._

“… He’ll do the job himself.”

_You walk out that door, don’t you ever come back!_

_A thousand memories, replaying over and over and over and over_

“No.”

The Rynclus tilts its head. “I beg your pardon?”

“That can’t be it.” Sam tilts his chin up, feeling a new determination seeping through his bones. “You’re getting into my head, trying to dissuade me. You don’t want me to do the ritual, but not because it’s just ‘inconvenient’ for you. There’s a reason. And there _is_ something else you’re doing, whatever your plan is. Well, I’m going to figure it out. And when I do…”

It raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell.”

“I am going to stop you. Kill you.”

“Good luck with that,” it says, its final words, and then Dean’s body collapses again and it’s gone.

~*~

“Dean?”

Sam has him by his shoulders, holding him carefully this time. His brother’s eyes are moving around underneath his lids. “Hey, you awake?”

“What the hell is going on?” John grunts behind him, and Sam looks over his shoulder to see his very irritated father struggling to get up.

“The Rynclus showed up.” Sam turns his attention back to Dean, whose eyelids are beginning to flutter.

“Yeah, figured as much. Remembered as much, too. Thing turned me into a damn idiot.”

“It, uh, knocked you out after that. Didn’t want you attacking it.”

“I wouldn’t have hurt Dean,” John grumbles. “So what’d it want?”

“To talk, mostly,” Sam says, but just then Dean opens his eyes and blinks blearily.

“Wha’… James?” he murmurs. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

“Dean! You okay? What do you remember?”

“’m fine. Um… nothing. Was just standing there and, uh, thinking ‘bout my brother, and the next thing I know you’re all over me.”

“Oh; sorry.” Sam backs away a bit, having forgotten for a moment that he didn’t have the unspoken privilege of brotherly concern that served as an excuse for hovering over each other.

“’s fine. But personal space, yeah? Dad? What happened?” Dean immediately looks to John for answers, and Sam sighs quietly.

“I don’t know. James was just telling me.” They both look at him expectantly.

“Uh, right. So, it wanted to talk. Wanted us to stop hunting it, actually.”

“Wanted you to stop what you’re planning, or it’d show Dean your memories.” John crosses his arms.

Right. He’d been there for that bit.

“Look, I was…” Sam rakes his hand through his hair. “There’s a spell I found that could maybe stop it, or at least lead it away from here. I was going to tell you about it, during lunch, but…”

“Why wait until lunch?” Dean queries.

“Because it has a time limit, doesn’t it, and he doesn’t want us trying to stop him,” John states, his tone indecipherable.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now.” Sam sighs, his energy draining out of him with the breath. “It won’t send it away. It’ll do _something_ to it, but I don’t know what. All I know is that it didn’t want me to perform it.”

“So naturally, we’re going to do it.”

Sam looks at John, surprised.

“Yeah,” John says. “We’re doing it. This thing is way too powerful to deal with this easy. Something’s going on. We’re taking whatever chance we may get.”

“But what about…” Dean makes a random gesture that probably makes sense to him. “Your… memories?” He looks at Sam. “They can’t be that bad.”

“I think that was a spur-of-the-moment threat,” Sam replies, and he hopes to God that it’s true. “And uh… yeah, there’s some that I don’t think an eighteen-year-old would want.” Like Hell. Among other things.

For a second he thinks Dean will protest, say he’s seen more than his share of horrors, even at his age, but he just goes quiet and says, “Yeah. Okay,” and that’s it.

“You, uh… it’s not too bad, right?” Sam blinks, not expecting John to be the one to ask that question, and frowns in confusion when he sees what he thinks might be genuine concern in his dad’s eyes.

“I’m-I’m dealing. Yeah. Don’t—” He cuts himself off, because “Don’t worry” is definitely pushing it. Whatever strange concern John has, it’s probably for Dean anyway. “Um, no. I’m fine. I’m good.”

“Good,” John says, and whatever Sam thought was there is gone. “Need you in good shape to fight this thing. It’s too powerful.”

Sam turns away from him then to go back to the car, so he doesn’t see his shoulders slump or hear the name that he utters softly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The culmination of events. The spell. The possibility of fear and weakness, but also of strength and joy.  
> Guess which one happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is still ginormous, and I actually did cut it. The cut is also ginormous.  
> I think it's a decent place to cut it, though.

“Dean?” Sam says his name softly, as they’re walking back to the diner. They have about two hours until noon, enough for a quick lunch that Sam’s sure he’ll lose soon enough if what the Rynclus had said about the ritual is true.

“Yeah, dude? What’s up?” Dean barely glances up at him, apparently deep in his own thoughts.

“About... the thing. Possessing you, that is. Did it... do anything? I mean, are you alright after that?” Sam feels a bit uncomfortable asking, but this is something he has to know. If Dean felt at all violated...

“No, I’m fine. I can’t remember a thing, if that’s what you mean. I tried; memory’s blank. If that’s not what you mean, hasn’t been the first time I’ve been possessed, actually. Kinda comes with the job, you know?” Dean shrugs, shooting him a strange look. “I mean, I’m sure you have too, right? You get over your first possession, and then the next few are just sorta there. Not that hard.”

Sam inhales sharply, his eyes darting down in memory of his hands turning, making sharp gestures, snapping necks and smiting and raw power in a quick end to an existence and—

“Yeah, I uh, know what you mean. Just wanted to check. It can be rather unsettling.” Sam swallows.

Dean huffs out a breath. “You’re tellin’ me. ‘S weird having someone else’s voice coming out of your throat. Or some _thing’s_.” He shudders dramatically. “Ugh. Do you know, my mouth tastes like burnt ass right now.”

Sam chuckles. “And of course you would know what that tastes like, huh?” He grins easily, falling back into the brotherly banter he forgot he couldn’t have anymore (it was just so _easy_ with this Dean, and his Dean had been so distant and he _missed_ it so bad).

“Shaddup,” Dean throws back, and the following silence is comfortable, more comfortable than he and Dean had been in ages.

Then Dean says, more quietly, “Damn, I miss my brother,” and an ache that has nothing at all to do with the current situation and everything to do with hearing Dean say those words sinks deep in Sam’s chest.

“Yeah, me too,” he replies softly, truthfully. Dean shoots him a surprised glance.

“You got a brother?” he asks, then frowns. “Right, you said something about that before. So, what’s he like?”

“Best damned thing in the world,” Sam says instantly, and he’s surprised at how easily the words come out.

Dean barks out a surprised laugh. “I doubt that,” he says, but his joking tone is hedged with uncertainty. “You must have realized somewhere along the line that he’s, um,” he clears his throat, “he’s not perfect.”

“I have,” Sam responds. “Trust me, I definitely have.” He can see John, up ahead, pause for a split second, change his footsteps, and knows he’s listening in. “And sometimes he doesn’t get it. We fight. It’s what we do, always.” He fights back a smile as he shakes his head.

“But he’s my brother. And I’d do anything for him.” He’s echoing his own words, uttered years ago under circumstances that were completely different, but might as well have been the same. Because it didn’t really matter what they faced. Oh sure, they both used whatever crap was currently going on as an excuse, but they both knew that it was about Sam and Dean. Always about Sam and Dean.

“But it’s not the same,” Dean interjects quietly, and Sam’s head shoots up, surprise on his face.

“I mean,” Dean shuffles his feet awkwardly, “You say that like it’s a mantra. Like it’s what you tell yourself when things go wrong. And I don’t think you’ve actually stepped back and been _brothers_ for a long time.”

Sam opens his mouth, but finds himself swallowing a lump in his throat that’s suddenly there and keeping him from getting any words out.

“I’m—sorry, I shouldn’t have said that; don’t know why I did.” Dean says, all in a rush. “It’s just that, the way you’re actin’, you should have someone else to help you shoulder that. That’s what your brother should be for. You should... God, dunno why I’m telling you this, fuckin’ stupidest urge, but you should talk to him. Hash it out, whatever. He’ll come around.”

“It’s not just him,” Sam snaps, surprising himself at his tone. “And it’s not that simple. We can’t all be just like you and _Sammy_.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, a beat where even Sam blinks, not expecting the words that had come out of his own mouth. And then Dean speaks.

“No,” he says quietly, “But I bet you were once.”

And Sam doesn’t know how to reply to that.

~*~

James has been quiet since his outburst.

It had troubled Dean at first, seeing the other hunter with his eyes downcast and his head bent, apparently at something Dean had said. But he eventually came to realize that James was simply thinking things over, lost in his own thoughts.

It makes him think about where exactly he and Sam are in the future. From what James had said, he gathers that they’re at least on better turns than James and his brother. There had been undeniable bitterness in his voice though, and the word “Sammy” had been spat out with a grimace. Maybe James and his brother don’t know everything about the Winchesters, then. Maybe they only see what’s on the surface. A lot of people do.

There’s something else, though. An itch he can’t scratch. There’s something odd about the whole situation; James talking about his brother, his reactions, Dean’s impulsiveness to psycho-analyze the poor bastard. Dean’s not getting the missing piece to the puzzle, and it’s bugging him, especially because he has the odd feeling that John is.

His dad’s watching James a bit differently, has been ever since Dean got possessed. What puzzles Dean the most is that the suspicion is all but gone. It flits across his eyes now and again, but then it’s replaced by confusion, followed by sadness. John’s not entirely sure about whatever theory he has, but if he’s right, he’s doesn’t like it.

They’re at the diner, James picking at his rabbit food and Dean devouring his burger with gusto. John’s ordered a sandwich, but has barely taken a bite out of it. They’re not talking, and suddenly Dean feels the need to break the tension-filled silence.

“When I’m thirty,” he says, raising his eyebrows at James’s salad, “I’m not gonna go on some crazy health binge. I don’t care if I get fat. I am a man with taste, and that ain’t taste.”

James slowly looks up at him, eyes dark, and Dean worries for a second that it hasn’t worked. Then James smiles, almost reluctantly, and scoffs. He still looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders, but at least the load’s a bit lighter.

“It’s not a binge,” he says. “It’s healthy eating. Salads are healthy, Dean.” And then, haltingly, like he’s willing to snatch back his words at a frown, “You should try one, you know. God kn—it would do you good.”

Dean snorts. “There’s a whole salad, all in here.” He waves his burger, sending ketchup splattering on the cheap tablecloth. He almost doesn’t catch James’s pained look before he covers it up with a smirk.

It’s obvious, now that he’s pointed it out, that the man misses his brother. He’s been doing the whole brotherly banter thing with Dean, almost as if he can’t stop himself. Dean doesn’t know why he chose _him_ , but he’s willing to give the guy what he needs. To tell the truth, he feels for him a bit. If he and Sam ever fell out... he doesn’t know what he would do. So he talks with James, responds to his questions. It feels a bit odd, having casual conversations with someone a dozen years older than him, without them trying to patronize or look down on him, but at the same time, there’s a certain familiarity in the way they speak, the back-and-forthness that he shares with only one other person.

Now two, Dean supposes, and is surprised that he doesn’t feel any bitterness on Sam’s behalf.

“So, you said you’re pretty close with Sam,” he offers, and James looks back down at his food again. Dean knows they had agreed to forget that that whole conversation ever happened, but at least it’s some common ground they have.

“Um, sort of,” James replies, and Dean can tell he’s uncomfortable.”I’ve been around you guys a lot—”

“So we’ve gathered,” John interrupts. “How can we forget the things you said when I was pointing a gun at you?”

There’s a beat, before James forces a chuckle. “Yeah,” he says. “I know you guys pretty well. I mean, it’s not like I’m your illegitimate half-brother or anything, but yeah, we’re close.”

John stiffens momentarily at the “illegitimate half-brother” part, and Dean frowns, but dismisses the odd choice of words.

“There’s not much more I can say about myself,” James says lowly, for some reason looking John dead in the eye. “But if what the Rynclus told me is true, you’ll get all your answers when I do the ritual.”

“I thought it was a spell,” Dean says, choosing to ignore the stare-fest that his dad and James seem to be having.

“So did I,’ says James, “but the creature said it was a ritual. If that even makes a difference.”

“Maybe the spell is just the first step,” John suggests.

“That makes sense.” James pushes back against the table, apparently done with what little he had touched of his salad. “But then what are the next ones?”

“We’ll get that answer when we do the ritual,” John says primly, and James’s nostrils flare in annoyance.

“Sometimes,” he says, “It’s better to know what the consequences are when doing mysterious rituals to fix something.” His voice lowers as he adds, “Even if the consequences don’t matter.”

“Well, you should have done more research then,” John states matter-of-factly. “You steal spells from me, might as well do it right.”

Dean can see the muscle of James’s jaw clench. “I _thought_ it was just a spell. I only knew it wasn’t an hour ago. There isn’t enough time to go back to the motel and plan out what to do.”

John makes a disapproving sound. “You always hunt like that?” he says. “Doesn’t seem very well-prepared.”

“Well, I would have been more prepared if I had had more information!” James retorts, glaring at him, his voice gaining in volume. “So when you know something, maybe think about telling other people so you don’t leave them lost in the dark without any idea of what to do, or who to turn to?!”

Uh-oh. This isn’t making any sense to Dean, but it’s not going anywhere pretty. He leans forward, raising a hand placatingly. “Hey, calm down—”

“I do what’s best for my family!” John snaps. James snorts.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure,” he says sarcastically. “Because going on a revenge-driven quest that sucks your family right into this god-forsaken life is exactly what’s best for them, is it?” His fist clenches on the table. “And then it just gets bigger and bigger, and they can’t get out, because every time they try, there’s always something left behind that forces them back in!” He’s gesticulating angrily now, his animated face telling a story Dean isn’t sure James wants it to tell.

“Do you really want to know what happens to your sons, John, because of you? What they go through? Because I can tell you.” James’s eyes are furious, his voice low, and normally Dean wouldn’t listen to a man when he’s angry, but this time he represses a shiver, because James is enunciating each word carefully, weighing its weight, like he _knows exactly_ what he’s saying, and he sounds deadly serious.

John’s face is pale; frozen in shock, and when he says nothing, the tension in the air dissipates like steam. James seems to realize what he just said, because he closes his eyes and swears softly.

“Look, I...” he trails off, sounding defeated. Neither John nor Dean feel like filling in the sudden silence for him.

James opens his eyes. “Let’s go,” he says finally. “People are staring.”

None of them utter a single word as they leave the diner.

~*~

They go back to the warehouse to do the ritual. It’s the closest open place, and they know it’ll be mostly deserted.

Sam’s heart is pounding in his ribcage as he clutches the piece of paper tightly. He has no idea what will happen. Even if the Rynclus was lying to him and the ritual won’t send him back, it’s bound to do _something_. He can only hope that it’s something that isn’t too… damaging.

Or at least that John and Dean won’t be able to see it if it is.

The Rynclus had said that the spell would reveal who he is. He doesn’t know how, or why, but if it there’s even a possibility that it’s lying about that to threaten him, like it had about the Cage...

Sam takes a deep breath. It _had been_ lying about the Cage. Lucifer was locked away; far, far away.

(There was absolutely _no possible way—_ )

He shakes his head to clear it. No going back now. He has to do this, and he can’t afford to have second thoughts.

And Dean has to know who he is.

They reach the centre of the warehouse. Sam turns around, faces John and Dean.

“Okay,” he says. “Look; Dean, there’s something you should probably know.” He looks down, at Dean’s feet, then takes another breath and forces himself to meet his brother’s questioning gaze.

“Apparently, the ritual should tell you, but you should hear it from me. You _have_ to remember that this happens. You have to, because...”

Sam’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. Dean waits, looking at him expectantly.

“Because...” Sam trails off, at a loss. He can’t remember.

Think. What’s so important about this? What is it?

_Think!_

“You... have to—tell Cas,” he manages. Deep breath. He rubs at his eye with the heel of his hand. “Have to remember this date, Dean. Because when it happens, in 2014,” he looks at Dean earnestly, not caring that he had now given Dean the full date—to hell with it—and wracks his brain for the words he knows he has to say.

_Why can’t he remember?_

“The creature... it’s stopping me from—knowing.” Sam squeezes his eyes tightly shut, trying to block out any distractions. “I don’t know what I have to say, Dean, help me.” The last part is said almost desperately, and Dean takes a step back.

“Uh, okay, man. Look, I swear I’ll remember this, and tell this “Cas” whatever. But you don’t look so hot. Maybe we should get this over with; you might feel better.”

“I—” Sam blinks. Dean’s right. He _should_ get this over with. There was something he wanted to tell Dean, though, right?

No. No, there was nothing.

Sam shakes his head. “Uh, right.” He feels better already. “Yeah, no, never mind. Let’s do this.”

There were symbols he needed to draw. “Alright. Chalk?”

 

Sam finishes with the symbols quickly and stands in the middle of a pentagram, hoping it’ll have some effect on the spell. He’s not exactly following the instructions for what it was originally intended for, so he’ll have to do his best to improvise.

He unwrinkles the paper and starts to read in a firm, steady voice:

_Dico autem tempus et anni terrae dominis_

_Exaudi orationem meam, exaudi deprecationem meam_

_Ut reddas quod tuum est, cum tempore_

_Quid enim tuum est, meum est_

_Aqua et harena et orate deos_

_Revertere in terram deperditi_

_Unde et in tempore_

_In quo ita exprimi potest,_

_Ad dandam scientiam et terram_

(I speak to the Lords of time and the years of the Earth

Hear my plea, heed my request

That I may give back what is thine, when the time comes

For what is thine is mine own

I pray to the gods of sand and water 

Return to the Earth what is lost

And so also in time 

In so doing, let it be expressed

So giving the knowledge to the Earth 

Let it be done. )

When the last word of the incantation leaves his lips, Sam goes quiet and waits. 

Nothing. 

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that follows.

Sam furrows his brow and looks around, searching for a sign, or something, anything...

And then suddenly, there's a violent wind blowing in the warehouse, banging the windows open and causing John and Dean to stumble back. Sam is forced to his knees, a sudden pressure bearing down on his back, and he barely a manages to get a hand out to steady himself. 

Then his vision whites out and through the ringing in his ears he can hear a voice, neither male nor female, whispering to him. 

 _Sam Winchester_ , it says, _Do you choose to submit yourself to the will of Time?_

 _Yes,_ he thinks back, with as much determination as he can muster. No turning back now. _I do._

_Then you have decided. Let it be done._

And then it all comes crashing down on him.

~*~

Or rather, pouring out.

Sam can feel almost every moment of his life, every time he had felt an emotion, spill from the fragile confines of his mind and fill the warehouse. It’s a terrifying and exhilarating feeling, terrifying because for once he’s actually _distributing_ a rush of memories instead of absorbing them, but the feeling is scarily similar—and exhilarating because for once he’s keeping them and not going insane.

He can see them as they pass through him, flashing by too rapidly for him to get a grip on any one of them. Everything is floating in front of him, flashing sights and sounds and smells, everywhere in his vision and not leaving, but flitting on to the next. Some are longer than others, Hell a whole lengthy rush of pain that makes him scream as it goes through him, unlocking doors in his mind that he had shut and stuffed a whole lot of _let’s not look at that_ in front of.

 _Oh God._ And he’s panicking now, focusing on the bad memories despite every warning bell that’s ringing shrilly in his brain. They’re devouring him and consuming him and he just _can’t_ , he’s not _strong enough—_

He needs Dean. Dean makes him stronger. He knows that, right? No matter what.

His brain latches on to that thought like a lifeline, making him look up and hone in his focus on the horrified eighteen-year-old that’s staring at him like he’s seen a ghost.

And suddenly Sam realizes that John and Dean can see his memories too.

“No, Dean,” he says, needing Dean to _know_. “’S okay. You don’t need to—worry about me.”

His dad barely registers, an important yet fleeting part in his life. He loves him, and he misses him sometimes, but John’s dead, has been for years. He hasn’t helped Sam through his trials and tribulations. Hasn’t held him, hasn’t comforted him, hasn’t ever wanted to make him better.

Dean has.

Dad hadn’t even wanted to deal with the demon blood. Would he have killed Sam, where Dean hadn’t?

“Why...” Dean swallows, and Sam registers that he’s unusually pale, that his eyes are wide and his voice is trembling. “Why is my brother there?”

He points.

Sam turns. Standing there and staring with unblinking, haunted yellow eyes amongst the nightmares circling around him, is fourteen-year-old Sam Winchester.

_After all, how can you run from what’s inside of you?_

“No, see,” Sam begins, needing to explain it to his younger self, “You don’t run. You can never run. Because every time you try, it’ll catch up to you.”

Younger Sam stares at him with yellow, yellow eyes.

“But you face it, and you deal with it, because, otherwise? It won’t go away.” Sam’s breathing heavily.

Younger Sam blinks once and the yellow eyes are gone.

Sam takes notice of this, almost expects it when younger Sam asks another question; doesn’t expect him to say it out loud.

“But you’re running away from Dean, aren’t you?”

“I—” Sam hesitates. Younger Sam starts speaking louder, quicker. “You ran away from him. You didn’t forgive him. About Gadreel. The Mark. He won’t listen to you, because you’re always wrong.”

“I know I make the wrong choices,” Sam confesses. “I realize that, I do. But I try my _damndest_ to fix them.” He clenches his jaw. “Always.”

“The Cage,” younger Sam acknowledges. He cocks his head, speaking slower and softer now. “You jumped in. But Dean jumped in too, didn’t he? And you didn’t want to help him.”

Into Purgatory. “Dean didn’t jump,” Sam says. “Not on purpose.” He’s delaying the real question, he knows; stalling.

“You didn’t want to help him,” younger Sam repeats, and his voice is gaining in volume. Sam rushes to answer. _Note to self: Don’t stall._

“I know," he breathes. "And I should have. But we’re over that now. Dean forgave me.”

“He forgave you for not wanting to save him. And you won’t forgive him for wanting to save you.”

“I had _closure_ _!_ ” Sam snaps, suddenly tired of people constantly telling him off for his actions. “I had it after he went to Purgatory, and I had it before Gadreel jumped in my meatsuit. If Dean can’t realize that, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about it!”

“So you’ll keep moving,” other him says, and Sam knows he’s said the wrong thing because although younger him is speaking in a monotone, his voice is somehow becoming bigger, angrier. “And you’ll shove it behind, like you do with everything.”

“We’ll get to it, eventually.” Sam swallows, resisting the urge to shrink back against his own anger. “We will. We’ll have to.”

“But you won’t, will you?” Younger Sam tilts his head in a way that is reminiscent of an animal trying to understand something. His face is scarily blank, but his eyes are wide and focused on Sam. “You shoved Hell behind a wall,” he says, spitting the words out. “You’re weak.”

“I didn’t, Dean did.” Sam clenches his jaw. He wonders what will happen if he loses too many questions.

“But when it broke, so did you.” Something’s happening to younger Sam. He’s growing, but not in the awkward, lanky way of a teenage boy. His whole body is changing, getting bulkier, face lengthening and hair shortening.

“My friend helped me with that,” Sam grits out. “What do you want me to say? My friends make me strong? Dean? Because they do. I wouldn’t be anywhere without them.”

Other Sam’s body isn’t changing anymore, caught at some garish half-way, but it hasn’t reverted back. “And when they’re gone? When your friends are gone, and you don’t have a shoulder to lean on, you’re weak,” he accuses.

“I’m doing fine right now,” Sam says curtly.

“But you’re not,” it says. “Even Dean noticed. You know he has.” It turns to Dean, and Sam suddenly remembers with a rush of horror that they’re not alone. John and Dean have been silent this entire time, and now Sam knows it’s not because they’ve been unconscious.

Sam drops his head, too ashamed to look at his brother.

“Ask him,” the vision says. “Ask him how strong he thinks this mysterious stranger is. How come you haven’t told him who you are, Sam?”

Sam goes cold and dares a glance at Dean, expecting the worse.

Dean, however, doesn’t seem to react. He glances at Sam in mild confusion when he looks at him, but he seems mostly focused on the vision, whatever it is.

“He can’t hear me,” the vision says. “Neither of them can. They can only see me. They can hear you, however. So ask Dean for his support. See if you’re worthy of it, and how strong you are if you’re not.”

Sam takes a deep breath. He doesn’t know whether this is a challenge that he has to do, or just another test.

“Prove yourself,” it says, and Sam suddenly realizes that it’s both. He’s backed himself into this corner.

“Dean,” Sam starts, and hates how much his voice wavers. He clears his throat, intending to keep on going, but Dean beats him to it.

“What the hell?” Dean asks him, and he sounds desperate. “Why the _hell_ is my brother there, and why do you keep mentioning me?”

“I—Dean,” Sam tries, a note of pleading beginning to creep into his voice.

“Ask him if he wants to help you,” the vision says.

“Don’t say my fucking name again!” Dean barks. He sounds scared. “Keep me out of this.”

“Dean, please,” Sam says, and he can feel that he’s on the edge of hysteria. “Please, you gotta help me through this.”

“I don’t even know you!” Dean backs away from him. “All I know is that’s Sam, and you’re really freaking me out.”

“You can’t tell him who you are,” the vision speaks, before Sam can blurt it out. “Not now. That’s cheating. You should have taken the chance when you had it.”

“Dean,” he tries again, and somehow he knows that this’ll be the last time he does. The vision’s shifting again now, and Sam knows that shape very well, has run from it more than he has run from anyone. “You’re always there for your brother, right? No matter what?” Dean hesitates, and Sam seizes his chance. “So please, _please_ apply it to someone else for once. Even me. _Please_ help me.”

Dean shakes his head, and Sam feels his stomach drop even as the vision starts to laugh. “Why didn’t you mention Sam?” Dean says, and his voice is quieter, resigned. “Only me?”

Sam's stomach drops. Dean's jumping to all the wrong conclusions.

“Sam’s in a bad shape,” He says meekly, knowing it won’t work. “By helping me, you’ll help him.”

Dean’s still shaking his head, and this time when he speaks, he sounds decided. “Look. You don’t exactly sound too stable right now, James. But Sam? Sammy’s a tough little kid. There’s not any chance in hell he’d end up even remotely in the same situation, psychologically, as you. _I don’t know you._ At all. And I don’t think I’ll ever have to, if I can help it.” He finishes in a rush, looking like he wants to snatch back his words, but it doesn't matter, because it's too late.

Sam closes his eyes, and falls, and Lucifer laughs and laughs and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are interested in the more puzzle aspect of things: Not to worry; there are two sides to the spell. Unfortunately, Sam led himself down the dark road instead of the light one. Who knows; he might make it back up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big reveal. And what follows, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revisiting this chapter to add a picture.  
> That being said, please note that Sam's behaviour in this chapter is NOT what I consider necessarily "in character". He's still under the effects of the ritual, and it's obvious that it's doing something to him. The entire chapter is in Dean's POV because I wanted observations on Sam, not his neither-here-nor-there (due to the spell) thought process at the moment.  
> Yeah. Enjoy.

 

James drops like a stone, falling onto his knees like a mockery of prayer, his long hair obscuring his face. The thing that looks like Sammy vanishes suddenly, its grotesque transformation incomplete. Dean heaves a quiet sigh of relief. It looks like this is about over.

“Dean,” his father says quietly from beside him. His next words are full of dread that Dean doesn’t understand. _“What have you done?”_

“What?” Dean spins around. “It’s over, Dad! Look; it’s gone. The thing’s gone, and James stopped... talking...” He falters at the end, a sudden uneasy feeling making his words lodge in his throat.

John’s shaking his head, looking at him with regret and resignation. “Why did you say that to him, son?” he asks softly. Dean’s confused, because it’s so very unlike his dad to show open concern like this for his _sons,_ let alone a stranger.

“He was scaring me,” Dean says, clearing his throat when his voice cracks. “Dad—he was talking about _me,_ but not Sammy, but he was using him as an example, and I just thought—” His breath catches.

Fuck. He had just thought that the _way_ James had been begging Dean to think of him like he thought of Sam, that had just sounded so pitiful and too much like Sammy was in it _bad_ , and it was too late for him, and maybe James had moved on to replace him or something because it was all DeanDeanDean and oh my god he had mentioned Dean going to _Purgatory_ ; he was insane, and if James was insane and if Sam was worse then Dean _couldn’t handle that._

“Dean,” John says, lowly, subdued. “Can’t you see?”

“Can’t I see what?” Dean swallows, because he thinks he knows where John is going and he doesn’t like it and it’s impossible, can’t be true, because Dean won’t allow himself to consider it.

“That _is_ Sam.” John’s voice is soft, but it’s not gentle; and it’s definitely not happy, but it’s not angry either.

“The fuck d’you mean, that’s Sam?” Dean scowls at him ferociously. “Sam just disappeared. Dunno why he was even here.” He’s in denial, but he wants to let himself swim and drown in it and let it pull the wool over his eyes before he acknowledges what he knows his dad is saying.

“That’s not what I meant. He said 2014, son.” John’s voice is still quiet, and Dean wants him to shout, wants him to scream, to be enraged and commanding and gruff and bitter, everything Sammy hates him for sometimes, but he’s not. He just sounds tired. “July 2014. Sam would be—”

“Thirty-one.” He knows; he’s done the math already. Denial can only get you so far.

“His name isn’t James, Dean, and you know it.” _James Dean,_ some hysterical part of his mind giggles. ”That...” John sounds like he’s having trouble convincing even himself, but then he takes a breath and seems to steel himself. “That there’s your brother.”

Dean shakes his head. “That’s not my...” he trails off and looks at James, really looks at him. James stares back, eyes wide and big and lost and just now focusing on Dean.

And suddenly he's squinting and his hair is falling in front of his eyes and he looks so much like Sam that Dean just—

Oh. Oh shit. 

Dean lets out a breath of air, barely a tendril, and he gasps, "Sammy?", his voice cracking at just below a whisper. And fuck, the man just _looks_ at him and widens his eyes and Dean bodily flinches at the puppy-dog look that he’s pulling off like a pro.

And he knows, knows immediately that this broken man is _his little brother_ and something in him breaks at seeing Sam like that, laid out bare like he deserves no respect. He wishes to hell that he’s wrong, even though deep down he knows he isn’t, but he has to check anyway.

“Dean,” Sam—no, the man—rasps, looking at him with absolute trust that Dean doesn’t think he can handle. “Dean,” and this time, more urgently, dropping to a lower tone. “It’s Lucifer, Dean. He’s back.” And then he swallows and looks at Dean like he’s caught between wanting to lay out his problems and feeling guilty for even bringing them up.

Deans stomach drops, but in confusion as well as dread. "What?" he whispers. "Sammy, you're crazy."

But he doesn't react to being called that, doesn't question it, and the last shred of Dean's hope shrivels up and dies. Instead, he says something that makes Dean's stomach settle even further in his shoes: "I know." And he clenches his jaw. "But we've already established that, haven't we?"

“Sammy...” Dean breathes, but Sam plows on, apparently oblivious to his inner plight.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do this time,” he says. “I mean, Cas isn’t here, and even if he was, there’s no way that I’m letting him take it from me again.” He lifts his chin stubbornly, and at least that’s something strong and firm that Dean recognizes.

“Who’s Cas, Sammy?” Dean asks softly, not wanting to spook his brother, who’s decidedly not very stable at the moment. He vaguely remembers Sam mentioning a Cas earlier, but he has no idea as to whom he’s referring to.

Sam looks at him like the answer should be obvious. “Uh, Castiel?” he says, stopping short of adding the _duh_ , which almost makes Dean smile despite the situation. “Hey, where _is_ Cas?”

“Not here,” John says, butting in, and Sam turns to look at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“Dad?” he says, and he looks and sounds utterly confused. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I—”

“S’ppose Cas brought you back,” Sam interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. He sounds a lot more stable than he had initially. Dean would almost think that he’s alright, mentally healed, except that he’s getting the feeling that there’s something very, very wrong with his brother right now. “Always seems to happen to us, anyway.”

“Sammy,” Dean begins, waiting for Sam to shift his attention to him. “Were you with Cas before this?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “Was with Dean. Huntin’ something.” He frowns, as if trying to remember.

“I was with... you...” he starts again, slowly. He blinks. “Why’d I say Dean?” he inquires, as if Dean should somehow know all the answers. “You’re Dean.” He stiffens suddenly, rising to his full height in one smooth movement, and Dean plants his feet firmly in the ground to resist the urge to back away.

“Are you Dean?” Sam asks, suspicion adding an edge to his voice.

“I’m Dean,” Dean confirms, swallowing. This is ridiculous. This is _Sammy_. He has no reason to be scared of Sam. This is absolutely ridiculous. Yet he can’t help the way his heart stutters when Sam glares at him, then at John, and then at the spot where the... thing had been.

Sam’s expression suddenly goes blank, the professional kind of blank that he gets when John’s stitching up his leg or popping his shoulder back into place, with gritted teeth and lying, lying eyes.

All Dean’s instincts are screaming at him to get away from the situation as fast as possible, but there are other instincts that are telling him that it’s his little brother there, and that he’s hurting, and that Dean should never, ever abandon him.

“Sam,” John begins, and Sam looks at him and goes white as a sheet.

“Stay away from me!” He trips backwards over his own gargantuan legs, and then scrambles back as fast as he can. “You can’t... leave me alone!”

“Sam, it’s just me.” John raises his hands placatingly, but for some reason that makes Sam look even more terrified.

Dean suddenly gets the strangest feeling, and is overcome with the urge to do something, fast, about the unabashed horror on his overgrown little brother’s face. Before John can react, and ignoring his warning shout, Dean starts forward, stopping just in front of Sam.

Sammy looks up at him, eyes wide. “Dean,” he says, like a prayer, like Dean’s name is absolution. “Dean...”

And suddenly Dean hates that Sam is so weak in this moment, that he’s been showing cracks since he’s shown up, and that John’s been acting like he doesn’t know what to do with him. He hates the fact that his little brother, of all people, had to grow up with the horrors that _Dean_ should be sharing with him, if not taking on completely.

“Where the hell was I, Sam?” he asks, even when he knows that all he’ll get in return is a confused head tilt and eyes that are too open, too trusting. “The hell was I,” he repeats softly, this time more to himself.

Sam suddenly grips at Dean’s collar, his fist clenching the fabric tightly enough to tear it if Dean tries to move back. “Dean,” he says, looking at him deploringly. “Are... are you real?”

“I’m real, Sammy,” Dean reassures him, trying to sound confident even as he hears the tremor in his own voice.

“He...” Sam clenches his jaw and shoots a wary glance at their father. “He says you aren’t.”

“Who, Dad?” Dean shakes his head. “Dad isn’t saying anything, Sam.”

Sam’s looks behind Dean again, checking that John is there. “Not Dad, Dean.” His voice drops down to a whisper. _“Lucifer.”_

Dean sucks in a ragged breath and runs a hand through his hair nervously. “That—that’s Dad, Sammy,” he tries to point out, because really, what the hell is he supposed to say to something like that?

Chirst. This is his _brother_ , and he needs help, real help, and Dean had said all those things to him...

Sam says nothing, just looks at him with eyes that are no longer guarded, and a cracking mask that’s no longer in place.

Dean drops down to his knees and wraps his arms around his brother as tightly as he can.

John’s saying something again, probably a warning, but Dean’s not paying attention because Sam’s giant head is buried in his shoulder, his nose poking his neck, and it’s uncomfortable, but Dean doesn’t care, even when Sam manages to squeeze him into a fucking ginourmous bear hug so tight he can barely breathe.

“You’re really small.” Sam pulls back suddenly, confusion evident in his expression. He blinks and peers at Dean, as if noticing his age for the first time. Dean wouldn’t wonder if he has.

Sam frowns. “You’re like half your age, Dean.” Bingo.

“Yup. Lookin’ good, aren’t I?” Dean tries to flash him a grin but can feel it falter. Apparently Sam notices it too, because his brow furrows further. He draws back.

“I... what?” A shadow passes over his brother’s face and Dean can see awareness slowly creep into his expression. He knows the instant Sammy remembers what’s going on because the walls behind his eyes slam back into place and when he looks at Dean, his gaze is far too old again.

“No, stop that!” Dean shakes him, not caring that he’s not succeeding in budging Sam even an inch. “Sam, dammit! You can’t be like this.”

“I know,” Sam says darkly. “And I’m sorry about that, Dean.”

“What?” Dean scowls when he realizes what Sam’s talking about. “No, that’s not what I meant! I don’t care if you’re,” he gestures vaguely, “whatever. That doesn’t matter right now.” Because it doesn’t, at all, and Sam should know that it doesn’t matter how messed up he is, because none of that would ever, ever change _anything_ in how much Dean gets to care for him.

Sam shakes his head. “Dean,” he begins, and then his eyes flicker to the right and he tenses almost imperceptibly. When he speaks again, his voice is tight. “It does. And I know what you’re thinking.” He casts his eyes down and sighs softly, and Dean wants to ask, _Do you, really?_ because he’s got the nagging feeling that Sammy’s not exactly latching on to caring, positive thoughts right now.

“My insides reek of shame and weakness, right?” Sam smirks self-deprecatingly and his sad, sad eyes bore into Dean. “But that’s okay. I’m pretty sure you’ll get the opportunity to change your Sam so he _doesn’t_ end up like me, so don’t worry.” He gets up gingerly and winces. “Ow. Think I pulled something with the damn spell.” He glances around. All the strange flashing images that had been there before are gone now, so Sam shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at Dean expectantly.

Dean wants to punch him in the face.

Maybe hug him again, maybe hold him tightly and not let go until he’s done spilling everything that he’s hiding, and maybe crack the lamest jokes he can think of to make Sam laugh. But mostly he wants to punch him in the face for ever talking about himself like that.

“Don’t wanna change you, Sammy,” Dean says, and then clears his throat at the hoarse croak of his voice. Sam looks at him, eyes serious and somber and sad.

“You will,” he says. He looks past Dean, at John, and Dean’s suddenly reminded that his father— _their father—_ is in fact right behind them.

“You knew,” Sam says to John, but there’s no accusation in his voice, no anger. It’s just expressionless, resigned even. “You knew about the blood, about,” he gestures to what he was looking at before, “him. Or at least Azazel. You knew almost everything.” There’s almost a certain awe in his tone. “And you kept it from us. I was too busy being angry, and Dean was too busy being stubborn.” His voice drifts off, and Dean gets the feeling he’s not entirely there. He has no idea what Sam’s talking about, obviously, but maybe Sam doesn’t either.

Sam smiles lightly. “Dean’s more pissed at you than I am,” he says, and then laughs almost indelicately, as if the whole situation is suddenly amusing to him. “Oh, you’re lucky it was me who came here.” His expression darkens suddenly, and it’s as if a flip is switched. “At least this won’t taint your opinion of Dean.” He glares viciously at John. “Leave Dean alone.”

“No one’s doing anything to Dean, son,” John says carefully, taking a cautious step forward. When Sam doesn’t make a move, simply glares, he takes another one. “Your Dean ain’t even here.”

“Sam,” Dean interrupts, because he feels like it’s all going to burst out of him if he doesn’t say something, “What the hell were you talking about earlier? _Lucifer?”_

Sam’s nostrils flare and he swallows, and Dean knows before he even opens his mouth that he’s going to wave him off. “Never mind about that,” he says, forced nonchalant tone grating on Dean’s nerves, “I wasn’t thinking straight, Dean. Don’t know what I was talking about.”

“Really?” Dean snaps, anger rearing up in him at the thought that Sam thinks he can just brush off Dean’s concern over something as obvious and personal and _his business_ as his brother talking about _Lucifer._ “Because what’s over there, Sammy?” He points to Sam’s right and doesn’t miss the way his brother’s face pales. “Or should I say who? Just what are you seeing, exactly?”

Sam’s face falls. “Dean—”

“What, do you think I can just... _forget_ that you thought Dad was the fucking _devil?_ That I can just say, ‘Oh yeah, my little brother’s suddenly batshit crazy and he refuses to even _talk to me about it_ because that’s how much of a fucked up relationship we apparently have right now!?’”

They’re all silent for a moment. Dean can feel his chest heaving with the force of his outburst. Then Sam spins on his heel and yells, “ _Shut up! Just shut up!”_ to empty space, and Dean’s heart sinks.

“Son,” John begins, “I think you should just—”

Sam whirls back around and before Dean knows what’s happening, Sam has a gun pointed at their dad’s chest. “You don’t know anything,” Sam accuses before they can react or make a move. “You don’t get a say in this. Not now.” He looks steady enough to an outsider, but Dean can hear the almost imperceptible hitch in his breath, can see the way his eyes don’t focus exactly on John, how they drift for a split second before snapping to.

“Azazel,” John says carefully, “Is that a name? Is that—”

Sam laughs, then; laughs and drops the gun. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he says. “Or should I have? I don’t know.” He shrugs, then seems to zero in his focus on Dean. “Didn’t I tell you, Dean?” He frowns. “Dad tried his best.” His face softens. “And of course I’d tell you about Lucifer, Dean. If it was that bad, I wouldn’t be the one keeping secrets. But...” He shakes his head and stops, looking down at the ground.

Something clicks in Dean’s head. “That’s why you’re acting like this, isn’t it?” he breathes. “ _Your_ Dean. He’s not here, is he?” Sam just looks up at him through his hair, and says nothing. “And I’m not him. I haven’t been through everything you two have been through, have I?” He holds his breath, waiting for an answer and hoping desperately that he’s guessed right.

After what seems like an eternity, Sam slowly raises his head. “You can’t know about Gadreel,” he says softly, “If you don’t even know about Lucifer. Can’t apologize, can’t understand, ‘cuz it wouldn’t be the same.” He stares at Dean. “Dean, why aren’t you you? Where are you?”

“Dad,” Dean suggests, barely daring to hope, “I think I know how to fix him.”

“How, Dean?” John sounds tired. Dean can’t imagine how hard this must be for him, seeing his sons communicate like this and, as always, have absolutely no idea how they can see things in each other he can’t.

“We need to get his Dean. Or send him back somehow. You saw the ritual, right? He was talking to someone, and our Sammy was changing with his answers. Maybe this is part of it too. Maybe we can still turn the tables. But we need his Dean to do it.”

“I think I can help with that,” a gravelly voice intones.

Dean and John spin around. There, standing behind them in all his creepy-eyed glory, is Trenchcoat Man.

“Awesome,” Dean says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never, in my life, written anything in that vibe, though the psycho-ness of it did help a bit. I hope I didn't mess up too badly.  
> The credit to the crappy captioned image goes to me. Thought it would fit.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam doesn't think there's anything wrong with him. Not at all. Castiel might have his suspicions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about 90% dialogue. Sometimes people just really love having in-depth conversations where everyone ends up even more confused than when they started.

“What the hell are you doing here?!,” is the first thing anyone manages to say, anyone being John, and say being spit out.

Trenchcoat Man ignores him completely and stalks forwards to Sam, stopping about a foot away from him. “We have to go. Now,” he commands, but then suddenly freezes and looks Sam up and down with a small frown on his face.

His eyes narrow as he gives Sam the impromptu once-over. Sam peers back at him, looking slightly nonplussed.

“Cas?” he asks in surprise, answering John’s question and raising a whole lot of new ones in Dean’s head.

Trenchcoat Man, apparently done with his inspection, scowls. “You idiot,” he says, which strikes Dean as an odd thing to say to someone you apparently just came to rescue. “You utter.... Winchester,” he growls, shaking his head. 

Dean finds it in himself to feel a bit offended.

Trenchcoat Man reaches forward and snatches the piece of paper that Sam has crumpled in his hand. He scans it quickly, and looks even more pissed off when he’s done.

“You used the  _Cuban_ ritual?” he demands.

Sam blinks at him. “It’s in Latin,” he says dumbly.

Trenchcoat Man sighs. “Do you even know what this does, Sam?”

Sam shrugs. “Um... I took Latin in school, so...”

Trenchoat Man’s brow creases in concern, apparently just now noticing Sam’s slightly disadvantageous mental state. “Hold on,” he says, and then presses two fingers to Sam’s head. Sam’s whole body tenses for a second before relaxing, and when he blinks his eyes open, they’re attentive and bright.

“It is... disgraceful to have a conversation with someone while their mind is still bearing the mark of a Cuban ritual,” Trenchcoat Man says gravely. Dean winces. “And my name is Castiel, Dean, not ‘Trenchcoat Man.’”

Dean blinks in shock. This thing can read his mind?

“You resonate,” Trench- _Castiel_  explains without looking at him. “You are of the same genetic chain as the victim, and therefore lower telepathic species are able to pick up on your most prominent thoughts while the victim is active. It’s associated with the spell; what you call a ripple effect, I suppose.”

“Wait; hold on a second,” Sam holds up a hand, “Victim?”

“Yes.” Castiel frowns. “You used a Cuban ritual of remembrance. Their means are... less than orthodox.” He tilts his head, and his next words are poignant, focused. “What did it do, Sam?”

Sam squints. “I...”

“It brings back something; something that you lost, but not necessarily something positive,” Castiel says urgently. “This is important.  _What did it bring back, Sam?”_

Sam draws in a breath, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He says nothing, but he won’t meet anyone’s eyes.

Castiel sighs, and Dean can tell he’s reluctant to push the issue. “Sam, I..." he stops what he's saying, seeming to reconsider it. "Sam, I'm sorry, but I  _need_ to know—"

"Lucifer," Dean blurts out, and Sam freezes. "He... he said something..." He trails off under the death glare that Sammy’s giving him.

Castiel draws in a sharp breath. “Sam, is this true?” he asks seriously. “Because if it is—”

“It’s not, Cas.” Sam digs his hands into his pockets. “I mean, it was. But, uh, no. He disappeared when you...” he gestures vaguely. “Um, thanks for that, by the way.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, and Dean wonders if he knows Sam well enough to tell when he’s being a shit liar. He apparently comes to a decision quickly, whatever it is, because he says, “You’re... welcome,” without further preamble.

“Okay, chatty time’s over.” They’re all reminded of John Winchester’s presence by his low growl. “Now who and what the hell are you, and Sam, why the hell are you friendly with it?”

~*~

“We went over this,” Sam grits out. He definitely doesn’t want to do so again. “This is Castiel. I told you, he’s a friend—”

“That’s before I knew you were my son!” his father snaps, and Sam shuts up. Cas turns around to peer at John and steps away from Sam. “And Sam, we hunt supernatural creatures! How many times do I have to drill it into you, boy? This thing can’t be anything but trouble.”

“His _name_ is Castiel!” Sam barks. Some part of him takes a small delight in seeing John flinch back at the unexpectedly deep timbre of his voice. He’s a far cry from the fourteen-year-old kid that they know, and although he does understand why John raised them the way he did, he’s not going to fit under his command anymore. He knows far too much and it’s far too late for that.

“He’s a monster, Sam!” John spits out, and even though Sam knows that it’s inevitable, he hates the mistrustful glance John flicks in Cas’s direction.

“He’s a friend.” Sam stands by his point. Cas, standing a ways in front of him, cranes his head around and his eyes go black, dark veins running up his throat. Lucifer points and laughs. Sam clenches his jaw and instinctively presses into his hand, and although it works and the hallucination disappears, Sam knows it’s only a matter of time before it doesn’t. Neurological responses will only last for so long. “He’s my friend,” he clarifies.

Cas dips his head in acknowledgment. “I have fought by your sons’ side for a number of years, John Winchester,” he says, his gravelly voice adding a depth of sincerity to his words. “I am honoured to consider them my friends.”

“Wait, Dean too?” John is visibly unnerved, his voice accusatory. “I mean Sam I get, all that sympathy for monsters bullshit that I see still hasn’t been knocked out of his head,” he glares at Sam, who returns the gaze calmly, “I don’t like it, and it’s hard to believe, but I get it. But Dean? That kid’s straight.”

Sam glances at Dean to see if he reacts to being talked about like he’s not even there, but his brother doesn’t look too bothered by it. As a matter of fact, he’s looking at Sam, like he expects him to uncoil and defend his honour, to show his rebellious streak. Sam gives him a half-shrug. _Not dedicated enough to the impossible cause of changing Dad’s opinion to care much._

Cas tilts his head, considering him. “You have a lot to learn,” he concludes. “As much as I have learned about humanity, and it should be returned in kind. But that’s not what I’m here for.”

“Oh, right.” John waves his gun in a manner that could be considered sarcastic, if that were possible. “You’re here to return my time-travelling son back to the future from whence he came.” Sam wonders if John even realizes which two movies he just referenced. Probably not, since one wasn’t even out yet. “Well, sorry if I’m having a hard time believing the guy who dropped shady riddles and a knife and then vanished into thin air. How convenient of you to turn up now, by the way.”

“I have not been able to reach you due to the deity’s influence,” Cas says. “The spell I used would not breach the barrier he put up.”

Sam tenses. That brings up a few questions he’s not sure he wants the answer to.

Dean asks the first one, to which Sam does, in fact, know the answer to. “Wait, barrier?” he says. “So you didn’t mean to ditch us?”

Cas turns to him. “There is a barrier in time surrounding the deity,” he explains. “The spell wouldn’t have functioned had he been present.”

“What spell, Cas?” Sam interrupts before John can interrogate the angel further. Something’s not right here. “I thought you,” he makes a very Dean-like gesture, at a loss for words, “mojoed here?”

“I can’t ‘mojo’ anywhere, Sam.” Cas turns serious blue eyes on him. “Not anymore. The grace I currently possess doesn’t allow me a large portion of my powers. It is... draining. I used an Enochian spell to track the deity’s footsteps through time, and arrived here the moment his influence waned and the barrier was dropped. I had guessed that he’d transported you to the same location he was heading.” He dips his head. “Thank... God I was right. I am glad you’re safe.”

Sam notices the hesitation, and it strikes him that those must have been Dean’s words before they were Cas’s. _Do not take the name of the Lord in vain._ The angel’s adaptation to human life is shocking, considering how he was when they first met.

“Wait, this thing’s a deity?” John questions. “I thought you said it was a Rynclus? As in a breed of some creature?” Cas’s brow furrows in confusion, and he slowly shakes his head.

“Cas, you were tracking it?” Sam says, the unsettling feeling in his gut growing. “And you used a spell to do it? So... you couldn’t have shown up before it arrived, could you?”

Cas shakes his head. “Your brother was pushing me, understandably, and so this was the best I could do.” He gives Sam a look that Sam doesn’t quite know how to interpret. “I’m sorry if I came... too late.”

Sam forces a smile, even when his insides clench up. He has to sell the “I’m-not-hallucinating-the-devil-oh-no” card, even when Lucifer is nowhere to be seen at the moment and there’s some truth in the lie. “You came at the right time, Cas,” he says. “I have no idea where to go with this now, and we could really use your help on this one.”

Cas winces, and Sam goes still when he realizes there’s a catch. “You can... stay, right Cas?” _This time,_ his mind adds. _Maybe he’s leaving because of you again._

“There’s no way he’s staying here,” John interrupts through gritted teeth in a tone that brokers no argument. “We’re going back to the motel, and we’re figuring out what we’re _actually_ up against, since trusting your ‘friend’ here has gotten us absolutely nowhere.”

“That wasn’t Cas,” Sam defends. “You know it wasn’t.” Why is John being so difficult right now? Is this what it felt like to deal with teenage Sam? No wonder John had had so little patience with him.

“Of course it wasn’t,” John snaps. His gun is still trained on Cas. “And who’s to say this is, then?”

Sam can feel his expression go lax as realization hits him. “Cas...” he begins, but he doesn’t know whether he means it as a warning or a plea for reassurance.

Cas seems to take it as both. “I am who I say I am,” he says. John shakes his head.

“Trenchcoat Man was a lot more strict,” a voice pipes up. Sam blinks when he recognizes it as Dean’s, and realizes with some shame that he had subconsciously thrown the “hush now, adults are talking” blanket on his brother.

“I mean,” Dean shifts his feet when John levels him with a look. “With all due respect, sir,” he continues, and Sam almost snorts in amusement. He can’t imagine his Dean talking like that anymore. “He was a lot more... standoffish. And he didn’t use contractions.”

“I assure you,” says Cas, “that it would have been impossible for me to come anywhere near this time before.”

“Which is why you appeared three days before the case.” John keeps his gun trained on the angel. “Or you didn’t.”

Cas seems to quickly abandon the attempt to try to convince John of his identity, because he ignores him and faces Sam. “We need to leave _now_ ,” he says. “The effects won’t last long; it’ll pull me back, and we need to get you back home.”

“There’s a case here, Cas,” Sam argues. “Look, if there’s another way...”

“If there was any other way, I would have taken it.” Cas strides forward until he’s inches in front of Sam. “I can’t do much without my powers, Sam. You know that. Dean is waiting for both of us.” He glances back at this time’s Dean, looking him up and down. “They can handle the hunt.”

“Sam, don’t go with him!” John orders. Sam sighs, caught between wanting to go home and wanting to stay, for completely selfish reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the hunt.

“You said it’s a deity.” Dean lifts his head. Cas steps back to acknowledge him. “We don’t know anything about this thing now. Or we do, but we don’t know how much of it is true. We don’t even know if we should trust you or not.”

Cas sighs. “It’s true that you seem to require more... aid. I will give you whatever information you need, but make it quick. We have to leave.”

“So you’ve said,” John intones. “But you also said that you tracked the creature to this place, didn’t you?”

Sam goes cold. He hadn’t even noticed the specifics of what Cas had said, which says a lot about just how smooth he is nowadays.

“And if you did that, that means that it was here,” John continues. “Now as to whether you’re the real thing or not, and whether you’re lying about whatever ‘barrier’ you were talking about earlier, I think we’re about to find out real soon, because nothing safe lasts forever.” He looks at Sam. “I don’t know whether to trust you either, but I think you know that. But the question is: if I blast your monster friend full of silver, is it worth it to find out whether he’s right or not?”

“Where do you think it was, Sam?” a voice pipes up to his left, before he can answer. Sam swallows and makes a conscious effort not to look. “Or rather, _who_ do you think the creature was?”

Lucifer moves so that he’s in Sam’s line of vision, and then walks up right through Cas, ending less than a foot in front of Sam. “Do you think it was your daddy?” he whispers conspiratorially. Sam can feel his cold breath on his throat. He presses down on his palm. Lucifer doesn’t so much as flicker.

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice breaks through to him. “You okay?” Sam’s attention snaps to his brother. Dean looks wary, the concern obvious in his bright green eyes, so different than what Sam’s gotten used to.

“I’m fine, yeah.” Sam nods quickly. Dean doesn’t look convinced, and the look he gives Sam is enough to convey the _we’re talking about this later._ Damn.

“He’s not okay,” Lucifer says to Dean. “He’s ruined on the inside.”

“Sam, I need to go,” Cas says. “I have to leave again. It’s your fault. I can’t stand to be in the same room as you. I can see why Gadreel was so eager to find a new vessel. You must be filthy.”

Sam swallows. “So...” He quickly backtracks through the conversation. “D-Dad,” The name sounds odd on his tongue, rusty with disuse. “You’re saying that it’s gonna come back?”

“It might kill me,” Cas says. “I would thank it if it did, rather than be with your leaking, polluted mind.”

“Not before the spell wears off,” Cas says at the same time, words not matching his lips. “Which it will in about four minutes. I wasn’t counting on all of... this.”

“No wonder,” Dean spits out. “My god, you’re a mess. Who could have prepared him for that, Sammy? Who could have prepared _you?”_

“The Yellow-eyed Demon did,” John supplies. “It pumped him full of that monster crack. Don’t know why I’m not blasting him along with Freaky Feathers over here.”

“Sam.” John barks his name, loudly, and Sam gathers it’s not the first time he’s done so in the past minute. “You listening to me?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Sam blinks forcefully, as if trying to wake himself up. “I’m a bit tired. Zoned out.” He shrugs apologetically. “I think it’s an after-effect of the ritual.”

“Where’d your friend run off to this time?” John says suspiciously. “We need answers from him.”

“Cas is...” _Right there,_ his mind supplies. “... probably gone because either his time’s up...”

“Or the creature is back,” Dean finishes.

~*~

 

“Or he was a lying son-of-a-bitch,” John says.

Dean shrugs. “That too.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People begin to realize that maybe, just maybe, they should try talking to each other and fixing things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter, long time coming. Good, solid ending for it, though. I just typed those last 500 words fast as I could. Enjoy.

 

“Dean.”

“Cas!” The hunter stops pacing and stares at him, gaze flickering to the empty space beside the angel like he’s expecting someone else to be there. “Where’s Sam?” he demands.

Castiel sighs. “He wouldn’t.... The creature forced me back before I could convince him to return with me.”

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean slams his hand down on the nearby table. Castiel, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch, used to the man’s tendency to be violent when frustrated. “We have to get him back, you know that. We can’t stop this thing without him.”

“I know.” Cas moves forward. “And I tried. Your family is very... stubborn.” He narrows his eyes in thought.

Dean huffs in amusement, at odds with the situation. “Yeah, you can say that again.” He seems to deflate, leaning back against the wall. “So me, Dad, and younger Sam were all there?”

“Not Sam.” Castiel chooses to ignore the fact that Younger Dean’s brain had been overflowing with thoughts of _SammySammySammy oh no what happened_ and this Dean hasn’t used that word in weeks. (He almost hadn’t been able to pick up on Younger Dean’s thoughts, and he definitely wouldn’t have a month ago). “I don’t know where he was. But that doesn’t matter. Dean, Sam used a Cuban ritual of remembrance.” He pauses meaningfully and looks at Dean like he’s supposed to know what the hell that means.

Dean makes a _yes, and?_ face and spreads his hands. “Cas, I don’t know what the hell that means.”

Castiel is apparently too agitated to even sigh in resignation. “It should keep the creature at bay for a while, but not enough for it to lose its high, which is what I think it’s worried about.”

“And the bad news?” Dean prompts.

Cas doesn’t beat around the bush. “I think Sam’s seeing Lucifer again,” he says gravely.

That’s got Dean on full alert. “Cas,” he says lowly, “Are you sure?”

Castiel hesitated. “Well, he said that he wasn’t, but...”

“Sammy’s a shit liar,” Dean finishes. The angel shrugs noncommittally.

“... Yes,” he agrees finally.

He crosses out his earlier assessment. The Winchesters aim to surprise.

“Okay.” Dean starts to pace again. “Okay, this is bad. That means we’ve got less time than we thought we did. And how much do Dad and I know?”

There’s an uncomfortable pause that’s long enough to make Dean look up and peer at the angel curiously. Cas is staring at a hole in the rug like he intends to make it bigger with just the power of his gaze.

“Cas?” Dean inquires.

“I... may have led them to believe that they’re being pursued by a deity. It should buy Sam some time if they’re not actively pursuing the problem.”

A slow, delighted smile lights up Dean’s face. “You son-of-a-bitch,” he says proudly. “Look at how much you’ve learned.”

“Well,” Castiel shifts as Dean claps his hand on his shoulder. “I...”

“You’re a better liar than Sam,” Dean says, apparently stuck on the subject and intending to be so for a while, and the angel finally gives in and sighs in resignation.

~*~

Dean sees it now.

Sees the _Sammy_ in everything that “James” did. Does. Whatever. You can change a person, but you can’t change who they are. Or something. Dean hadn’t been paying too much attention to _that_ hippy-dippy speech when it had rattled its way out of his geek of a brother.

Dean wants to call Sam. _His_ Sam. Wants to know that he’s okay, that he’s not being attacked by anything supernatural. He wants some kind of reassurance that he still knows _one_ Sammy, even if it’s not the one that’s in front of him right now.

Because this is scaring him.

It’s not Sam—of course it isn’t Sam. Sam may be a fucking giant, but he’s still girly as hell, and his hair’s still stupid.

Also, he’s hovering around Dean sort of protectively now, which would be cute, role reversal and all that, but his eyes are much too hard when they’re not focused on Dean (when they soften) and his body language is much too aggressive, too _you touch him and you die._ And the thing is, Dean’s pretty sure (despite all the years between them) that Sam wouldn’t do that under normal circumstances. The man must be just like an overgrown teddy bear. No; something’s wrong.

Sam is scared.

And that’s what scares Dean.

Of course, there’s also the goddamn monster that’s like five feet away.

It’s a weird-looking thing, with what Dean thinks are tentacles writhing out from its back. Or they could just be arms. Fuck if he knows.

Sam is peering at it with the oddest expression, stuck between complete bewilderment and anger. John is staring at Sam, and his face is undecipherable.

“This is it?” Sam demands finally, and as John finally tears his eyes away from his son and to the... thing, Dean realizes that their dad’s been waiting for Sam to acknowledge its presence. As if to reassure himself that Tentacles is, indeed, right there in front of them.

Dean doesn’t think that Sammy’s brand of crazy is the kind you can catch, though.

“Really?” Sam snaps, and Dean wonders what it is that he sounds so pissed about. “What is... _this?”_ Sam gestures, and Dean feels like he can ask the same question. “Are you mocking me, or what?”

The thing produces a bronze knife from seemingly nowhere and waves it tauntingly about. Sam honest-to-god _growls_ , but the thing doesn’t seem to care.

 _“This is what you’ve reduced me to!”_ it hisses, and it seems pretty pissed off as well. _“The only mockery here is you, Winchester!”_ It hurls the knife on the ground, and Dean revises his earlier statement about it taunting Sam. It doesn’t seem any more keen on its appearance than Sammy is.

“That’s enough of this bullshit,” John says, and shoots it. Dean jumps despite himself.

The bullet only seems to make it angrier, though. _“You fool!”_ it screeches, and Dean could swear for a second that that sounded like _Sam’s_ voice. Older Sam, not his Sammy. _“You’ve stretched us both out!”_ It’s addressing Sam, despite the fact that he hadn’t been the one to unload a gun into it. _“We’re both falling apart now!”_

Sam scowls. “I don’t know what you’re—”

 _“ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’”_ the thing mocks. _“Do you know how many times you’ve said that? Far too many. Face it, Winchester; you’re crumbling into little pathetic pieces.”_

“And so are you,” Sam breathes, realization in his tone. Dean wants to know what his grand epiphany is, because he’s still confused as hell.

The thing snarls at him. _“I would devour you in seconds, but I can’t.”_ It seems to move back a little. _“I—”_

“You’re not strong enough,” Sam butts in. The thing looks even more pissed off at the interruption. Dean supposes that its pride is probably wounded enough without Sam nerding out over it.

 _“Not now,”_ it says, _“But I will be. And believe me, Winchester; when I am, we shall meet for the last time.”_

“Yeah,” Sam says, and his voice is the steadiest it’s been all morning. “That’s because I’m going to kill you.” And even Dean has to admit that his little brother sounds kind of badass right now.

The thing’s next words, however, quash the little flame of victory. _“Only if you don’t kill yourself first,”_ it hisses, and then disappears.

~*~

Sam doesn’t know what the hell the creature meant by that, but he, for one, isn’t going to dwell on it.

Right now, he has other problems.

To begin with, Lucifer has changed his face.

He’s _him,_ Sam, circa 2011. That would be bad enough in and of itself, but he’s not alone. There’s a younger version of Sam as well, with hair that hasn’t been cut since college, and blood dripping from his mouth. Then there’s another one, a bit older than Lucifer, with a mocking sneer and no light behind his eyes, no soul. He’s flickering, ghosted by a hunched over, pathetic figure that Sam remembers twisting a knife in in an abandoned house inside his head. But worst of all, there’s the oldest Sam, obviously recent, with electric blue eyes and a stiff back, holding himself like a soldier.

Lucifer had been talking to him earlier, but now none of them are speaking at all. They’re staring at him, every single one of them, each, with a different emotion in their eyes, and one with no emotion at all. They’re not breaking eye contact, no matter what. It’s extremely unsettling.

Everywhere he walks, they follow. Every room he steps in, they enter as well. All of those gazes: sightless, accusatory, stern, mocking; they’re trailing behind him, never leaving him alone.

Sam thinks he understands what the creature had meant when it had said that he was breaking into pieces.

He also thinks that he’s getting an idea of its situation.

“It’s strange, isn’t it,” he muses aloud to no one in particular, “How much he knows about me? How much he wants to talk to me, and not either of you?”

John turns around to face him slowly.

“I mean,” Sam continues, “At first he said that he was stalking the people here, and latched on to me. But that doesn’t make sense.” He shakes his head. “Why would he need me to survive? He’d just go on to someone else. They were empty threats,” he realizes.

“Sammy,” Dean starts slowly, like he’s talking to a frightened animal about to dart away, or a child, “You get that this is a mostly psychological thing, right?”

Sam laughs humourlessly. “Oh, I get that, alright,” he says darkly.

“What I think he means, son, is that we still know absolutely nothing about this creature,” John picks up, “And we have no clues, except for...”

“Me.” Sam bows his head.

“Sammy, you need to tell us what’s going on,” John says, and Sam blinks, his regular reaction to someone other than Dean calling him by the rather juvenile nickname (with Dean, it’s never childish or ill-fitting at all, but he’s Dean). When he registers that it’s his long-dead dad, he sighs at himself, unimpressed at his own ability to adapt.

“Tell you all I know?” Sam says. He ponders the thought for a moment. It’s sorely tempting to just list off all the problems that are grating at him that he wishes would be solved, and relish in Dean’s sympathy, but at the same time it’s horrifically selfish and he can’t believe he’s thinking it.

He should, however, probably tell them as much about the creature as he possibly can. There’s no use hiding anything anymore, after all. Especially if the past ten years had taught him anything.

“Okay,” he says, and feels the tension leave his shoulders, as if he had been unknowingly holding all those secrets in and they had been physically weighing him down.

“Okay,” he says, and tells them everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been bugging me so much, but now I'm just going to do what I set out to do in the first place: write the damned thing.  
> The ending is coming, and it's not going to be clever and witty and planned half a year in advance.  
> It's going to be a conclusion, it's going to be an epic antithesis to the angst in this story, and it's going to be so damn fluffy and satisfactory your heart will clench.  
> Let's do this.

**Author's Note:**

> Guys.  
> Because I don't want to address every single comment, I'll just post this here where hopefully you all can see it.  
> I have no intention of continuing this fic. It has nothing to do with you guys, nothing to do with my files (which I got back, eventually), and everything to do with how I see the work as a writer.  
> The show itself, Supernatural, was something I liked, and then something I tolerated, and then something I half-assedly watched while I criticized its every move (since honestly, it deserves it by now), and by now I just can't even watch it anymore. Writing-wise, character-wise, content-wise and all the other wises, it's just dug itself into a huge hole and it's trying to claw its way out. I find myself mocking almost everything I see when I watch an episode, including the characters, and if I don't even care remotely about the characters anymore, I shouldn't be writing this fic. As much as I loathe to interact with parts of the Supernatural fanbase (say on YouTube), you guys, feelings towards the show put aside, deserve a writer who at least cares about what they're writing. I'm glad so many of you liked this, and I'm glad people will continue to read it, but I've put a note in the description (I actually did this a while back) to warn any future readers. Honestly, the writing process was fun, great, and I read all of your comments.  
> That being said, I was really trying to sort myself out when I wrote this, and as such it is a bit of a mess. Writing-wise, it's a small atrocity, but if you guys like it then I'm not criticizing that. For that reason I'll keep it up on this site. As much as I disagree with the show (and that's an understatement), I respect other people's opinions of it, and your opinions of this fic.  
> If any of you would like to ask me questions, you may comment on this. If you want to yell at me for not liking the show, please refrain from doing so. If you want to say anything else, go ahead.  
> See ya, folks.


End file.
